Colors and Promises
by itsfaberrytaboo
Summary: Quinn has loved Rachel Berry since she was seven years old, bound to her by a light green ribbon. When Rachel tries to circumvent fate, 19 year old Quinn goes to New York City in search of her soulmate. But how do you establish your loving dominance over someone who doesn't even want to be found? D/s AU.
1. Beginnings

She is seven years old when it happens.

She is sitting in her room, pretending to do her homework when really, she's doodling in her notebook. Big looping letters, surrounded by flowers and hearts. Her name.

Quinn.

It's a mundane day, a little overcast and she's had a cold, which means extra hot chocolate and extra hugs from Daddy. She's humming softly to herself, just a wordless tune of contentment and a little boredom. And then she hears it.

_Hi._

She looks around. There's nothing in her room, there's _no one_ in her room. She's never had an imaginary friend but maybe she could have dreamed it, except it was loud and as real as her daddy's voice booming from the next room as he talks to one of his clients. She waits a few seconds before going back to her "homework."

_Hello! Are you there? Will you… talk to me?_

Quinn screams.

Her mother scoops Quinn up in her arms and hugs her trembling body close, while Daddy looks ready to murder whoever is invading his daughter's room. With frightened tones Quinn whispers that she heard a _voice_, it was a monster, someone is _there_, and suddenly Mommy is smiling and tearing up, and Daddy is saying "That's my girl!" with that voice he uses whenever he's really proud of something.

Mommy sits Quinn on her lap and cuddles her, telling her that now that she's a Big Girl it's time she learned a Secret. Quinn loves secrets, and so she listens with wide eyes as Mommy tells her that every little girl and boy has another little girl and boy out there that is theirs, just for them, and when the time is right, they start talking to each other. Even if they haven't met. They can talk to each other with their minds, and see each other, if they're really lucky. They're bonded, Daddy says, just like Mommy and Daddy are, and it's because someday they're going to love each other very much. It's true love, Mommy says, and she and Daddy share a smile.

Mommy asks Quinn what the boy said.

"She asked if I'd talk to her."

Mommy and Daddy share a look.

Quinn sits back in her room, full of this new secret about what her life will be like when she's a big girl, and suddenly, it's as if there's someone there, right on the edge of her mind. Almost as if there's someone sitting, just outside her room. But it isn't scary, more intriguing and… comforting.

Mommy said that if Quinn was lucky, she'd be able to see. She concentrates, squeezing her eyes shut and thinking hard. At first she sees nothing. But then… there's a room. And it's pink, not like the mild green of Quinn's room. It's pink and sparkly and oh, there's a girl, sitting on her bed just like Quinn. She's coloring in a book, her tongue poked out from between her lips as she focuses, and she's… she's _singing_. Quinn listens, and she decides she likes it. She likes the girl's voice and the way it seems to fill Quinn until there's nothing else… but then the girl lifts her head and she _looks_ at Quinn, _she knows she's there_…

And she smiles, all brown hair with bangs falling into her brown eyes and there's a dimple in her cheek.

_Hello_, she says, and she sounds breathless and shy. _I'm sorry I scared you._

_Hi_, Quinn says back. _ I think I'm supposed to love you._


	2. Whenever You're Ready

In a New York City winter, the sun sets just before 5 p.m. The temperature dips to a cold, but not necessarily frigid, thirty-eight degrees. An inch or four of snow crunches under boot, and the wind blows a chill almost through the very skin of a girl who might be walking through the park, on the way back to her apartment after her last class of the day.

Quinn Fabray reached into her pocket for her brown leather gloves, slipping them on and then furrowing her brow when she realized, how was she going to operate her iPod now? Rolling her eyes, she tore off one glove, and selected the playlist.

Her.

Walking past a coffee shop, Quinn stopped in her tracks and reversed her direction, actually walking backward to retrace her steps until the windows of the shop were in front of her. She glanced in, and then sighed in disappointment. She thought she'd seen…

Quinn hit play, the first of a hundred songs meeting her eardrums, then tucked the iPod into her pocket and pulled on the other glove. She shivered a little as the wind blew, grateful that her apartment was only a three block walk, and glad that it was one of the few in her building where the heat actually seemed to _work_. Last year when she'd started at NYU, she'd been tempted to live in one of the dorms, to "get the full collegiate experience," as her father had said, but after making a couple of campus tours, Quinn had declined.

In spite of her not living in one of the dorms, Quinn had immersed herself in the world of NYU, in the life of 70 Washington Square South. She was an art history major, something that played into both her love of the past and her love of doodling in the margins when she was supposed to be doing homework. Though her doodling had grown more into full-blown expressions of art and emotion, even now at the age of 19 her subject was primarily a specific name, a specific face, as familiar and dear to her as breathing.

Even though it had only been a year, Quinn had already made a name for herself at CAS-NYU. Much to her mother's surprise she'd actually joined a sorority for Dominants, a group less situated around buying friends and more for camaraderie, girls who cared more about the submissives they were bound to than they did about nail polish. There had been trips to the mall, of course, and a few parties here and there, but Quinn was emboldened by the fact that most of her friends seemed to enjoy academia and the prospect of a future with their intended than they did seeing who could drink the most alcohol and not throw up. (Quinn lasted one drink. Stupid wine coolers.) And she had also gotten involved in a "justice forum," designed to ensure that submissives weren't viewed as second-class citizens in their society. Every now and then an offshoot of the old guard would crop up, people who thought that submissives needed to not only be treated as lower, but _registered_ as well. There had been a push with some of the more conservative members of their society for a national submissive database, a list of names and addresses and claims. The very idea disgusted Quinn; she supposed she'd gotten that streak from her father, who had always been involved in Dominant/submissive politics when she was a child. He had never treated Quinn's mother with anything less than dignity and respect, even if he was her Dominant. Quinn had never seen any abuse, any mistreatment, just the loving bond of two people who had known each other since they were twelve years old. There was no mark in their society that delineated who was submissive, dominant, or switch, and Quinn didn't understand why some thought the separation of "classes" needed to be more than what it already was.

Quinn had been Dominant since she was seven years old, when she was too young to even understand what it meant, what it entailed. In fact it wasn't until she was older, after a lot of soul-searching, that Quinn was sure of what she was. But everything had changed that day. The day when a little girl with brown hair had slipped into her life, into her mind, and changed everything. Her mother had tried to explain it in terms that a little girl would understand, but even then Quinn could have had no idea about how her future was taking shape from that moment on. What had followed had been a whirlwind of eye-opening experiences and realizations. They had taken her out of her art class at school – a decision that had been met with a kicking and screaming tantrum – and put her in another one, vaguely called Learning to Be You. It was taught by a meek and mild woman with red hair, who hadn't necessarily appreciated it when on her first day, little Quinn Fabray had tilted her head, one blonde curl wound over her index finger, and said "Are you sure you're qualified to teach this?"

The class itself had been meaningless; the only lesson that Quinn had really learned from it was that every person was bound to another, in a way that was unique to them. Look at it as a rope, Miss Pillsbury had said, or a ribbon, that attaches you to the other person.

"What color is the ribbon?" Quinn had asked.

"Any color you want."

Quinn liked that idea. She had raced home, full of wonderings about colors, reds and purples and blues.

Later that night, the little girl that occupied her mind told Quinn that it was green.

So she was bound, in light green, twirled around her heart and tied in a bow.

The class taught by Miss Pillsbury had been Quinn's only real introduction to the society in which she lived, except for whispers and rumors in hallways and locker rooms, trying to figure out right and wrong. College had opened up a world of opportunity for Quinn Fabray, something she'd never be able to have in Lima. New people and new places, new ideas, new theories for her mind to dance around and absorb. There were other classes that she could take at NYU, which went beyond math and medieval art and architecture. Classes like The Psychology of the Dominant. Submissive Feminist Theory. Advanced Aftercare. Quinn had taken one or two already; on the one hand, she felt like her very nature would help her with all she needed to know about being a Dominant. On the other… there was no excuse for not learning. And she'd heard stories from other students that made her toes curl, stories of abuse and tragedy. There was no way Quinn would ever allow herself to be a person like that, be in a relationship like that, and so it didn't matter if the classes were electives. She'd take them anyway, just to be sure.

She owed it to the small girl who used to hold that ribbon around her heart.

Quinn's apartment was situated on the corner, a broad, squat Georgian-style building of 6 floors. She lived on the fifth – and the elevator never worked, so she grumbled slightly as she entered the front door and started up the steps. She was late getting back, because she'd actually taken the long way round so she could look in a couple of windows. It was the same as it had been every night for the past year – no one. She wondered if the other New Yorkers thought it odd, a slim blonde girl in a stylish coat with ear buds glued to her ears, peeking into the window as they drank their coffee or read their book, sipped tea and indulged in a cheesecake, or beer and a pizza.

Her ritual was always never-wavering, even though the process varied from morning to morning, night to night. Scanning the subway with hopeful eyes, heart lurching at the sight of brown hair, and then sinking when it just wasn't who she hoped. Scouring the village, sitting for hours at the Life Café singing the songs to herself as she waited and watched. Was today her no day but today?

_I die without you…_

She'd take alternate routes; go to different pharmacies besides the one that was closest to her apartment, just in the hopes that this pharmacy, or that one, would hold her answer. She'd buy silly stuff she didn't even need just for the excuse to look into a shop, cough drops and candy bars and tooth brushes, and leave the packages in the common room of her apartment building for the others. She knew they must think she was weird, but she didn't care. She had one purpose, one reason why she chose a New York school instead of one closer to home. One reason why she didn't listen to her parents' advice to just move on, maybe it wasn't the right thing for you anyway, Quinn, maybe there's a nice boy out there… Her parents had tried not to make it seem like they didn't want her to be with a girl, but Quinn knew. It wasn't that they were particularly intolerant, it was just… image. Pretense. She loved her parents, but Quinn knew she had roles to play. She was a Dominant, and she was a Fabray; she just wasn't sure being a lesbian was an accepted part of the role.

She was breathing a little heavier by the time she made it upstairs to the door marked 505. Pulling off the gloves and stopping the iPod, Quinn tucked it back into her coat pocket and brought out her keys. A swift turn of the lock brought the sound of a bell jingling, and she grinned.

"Hey, Van!" she greeted the brown and white cat, who had padded to the front door and now sat watching her. Van, or Van Gogh, was so named because he had part of his left ear missing, a product, the shelter attendant had said, of him getting into one too many fights on the street. With a face like his, Quinn had thought at the time, she could see why. She'd adopted him anyway, though; something about the damaged little fella had endeared him to her, and now one of the highlights of her day was coming home to him.

"Did you miss me?" she said, hanging her coat up in the closet and rubbing her hands together to warm them.

Van Gogh turned around and padded back to his empty bowl, pausing to look back at her reproachfully before flopping down in front of it.

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, how silly of me to forget my role as food person." She quickly gave the grumpy cat something to eat, and then set about making her own dinner.

Quinn had gotten scholarships that had taken care of her NYU tuition so she wouldn't have to rely on them, but still her parents had insisted on contributing something to her education, and it had taken the form of her studio apartment on the fifth floor. At $1500 a month, the apartment wasn't large by any means, but it wasn't a hole in the wall either. Quinn had brought her bed and other furniture from home, preferring to blow some of her graduation money on bookcases that now separated the apartment into "rooms." There was enough space for her bed, a chair with two tables in the "kitchen," a small loveseat, and her television. That was all she needed, really; she didn't spend near enough time resting, and so she probably could have used a hotel room more than an apartment. Still, it was home, and Quinn had decorated it as best she could in her own style. Books littered nearly every inch, and her drawings hung on the walls.

One in particular, of a girl with brown eyes and a wide smile, took a place of prominence just to the left of Quinn's bed.

Dinner was simple; Quinn ate a sandwich and some soup as she scanned the news on television. Nothing much was happening lately; the world seemed peaceful and quiet. Van Gogh eventually made his way over to her and hopped onto the couch, allowing her a brief moment of petting and relaxation. But soon he too stalked off, and Quinn sighed.

She glanced around her apartment, empty save for her and an antisocial cat. She very rarely had friends over; despite the little amount of time she spent in her apartment it was her sanctuary, and she didn't feel like having it invaded by people she barely knew, even her classmates. Still, it was easy to get lonely, once the rush of getting from class to class, completing papers, engaging in spirited debates about submissives' rights was over.

Quinn took a deep breath. "I miss you," she said aloud.

She paused, and shook her head when there was nothing around her but silence. But it didn't stop her from speaking, as she did every night.

"I had a good day today," she said. "I-I got an A on my test, you know the one I told you I was so worried about? You should probably say that there was no reason for me to worry, that you knew all along I'd do fine. You… you used to always say that."

Still no answer. She waited for it, strained for it, a hint, a little tendril of pride dancing around her head.

Nothing.

But Quinn went on, her voice shaking even as she struggled to sound cheerful. "I've been hanging out with the girls a little too much; they say I'm turning into a city girl now instead of a Lima loser." She tried to laugh, but it was hollow. "I guess my New York conversion is almost complete. Which is fine with me, since it's home now. You know that, right? New York is my home now."

Quinn knew she was rambling, that her statements were soon to be bordering on desperation, but she didn't care. It was the same every night: she would come home, feed Van Gogh, have her dinner, and tell the space around her about her day.

"I'm doing a painting for the winter showcase, did I tell you? Well, it's not for the showcase yet; it's kind of like an audition. You paint and then you submit it, and if the judges like it you're asked to have it in the showcase. It could be a really good thing for me, there are galleries that come to the showcase and it might help me get some work. Or at least get my foot in the door. I'm really excited about it. Nervous too."

What was that?

Quinn sat bolt upright on the loveseat. Had that been… something? A touch, a caress, a gentle sliding over her mind almost like a hand on her shoulder, a squeeze? She waited, her mouth open a little, but after a few short moments, she slumped back.

She'd imagined it, of course. She wanted it so much that now she was projecting.

Taking a deep breath, Quinn closed her eyes. Balling her hands into fists, she concentrated.

_Let me see you._

She searched, for something, anything, for a glimpse of a room, pink and bright. Of gold stars on the walls flashing in the moonlight. Stretching her hands out again she imagined that she was stroking brown hair, fingers threading through softness, comforting, giving strength.

_Princess Rachel, please…_

She heard nothing, felt nothing. Quinn choked back a sob as she opened her eyes, swiping the back of her hand across them and taking another deep breath.

"Okay," she said into her apartment. "Okay, gold star. Whenever you're ready."

After washing the few dishes and setting them on the rack to dry, Quinn remembered that tonight was laundry night. She made a face, but nonetheless went to her "bedroom" and gathered up all the clothes that were thrown on the bed and on the floor, shoving them into a basket. She hated the two flight trek to the laundry room, which is why she put off doing it as long as she could. She shoved a bottle of detergent down into the pile of laundry and cast a look at Van Gogh over her shoulder.

"Hold down the fort while I'm gone, boy."

Van Gogh responded by turning onto his side away from her, and Quinn laughed.

"Ass," she said affectionately, pushing the door shut with her foot and heading to the laundry room.

There were 6 washers and 6 dryers in the laundry, a nevertheless cramped and hot little room that perpetually smelled of sickly sweet fabric softener and dirty socks. Quinn struggled to get the door open but nearly fell through when she felt it pulled from the other side.

"Sorry about that," the guy said apologetically, then lifted her basket out of her hands. "Let me help with that."

"Sam," Quinn said, returning his smile with her own.

"Sam I am," he nodded, and sat her basket on one of the washers, then hopped up on to the one next to it, his legs swinging lazily.

Quinn shook her head. "Finish that with something about green eggs and ham and I don't care if I'm not the one you're bound to, I'll still put you on your knees." She grinned to show him that she was kidding; a submissive who was already bound would never respond to a Dominant that wasn't his, and Sam had been bound for almost as long as Quinn had.

The apartment was a mixture of both students and non, and Sam didn't go to NYU. Quinn didn't necessarily like that Sam worked at one of the strip joints in the city, but she knew that he was doing it to send a little money to his family back home. Plus that was more his Dominant's business, and not hers. Sam was a good guy, if a little dim, and had been her very first friend in New York, having helped her dad lug Quinn's bed up the flights of stairs to her apartment. They didn't hang around much except in the common rooms or at the laundry, but it was nice knowing that she had someone to connect with both at home and at school.

"Let me know how that works for you," Sam smirked at her, and Quinn laughed again as she started the wash.

She sobered though at Sam's next question. "So did you find her?"

It was a source of endless embarrassment for Quinn that she'd blurted out everything about _her_ to Sam that first night in her new home. But he'd found her in the common room, curled up in an impossible position on one of the armchairs, sniffling with tears of homesickness and uncertainty. He'd sat with her all through the night and into the next morning, just talking and listening to her life story since the age of seven. Sam had been gentle and sympathetic, offering her tissues and then going out and bringing them both breakfast.

A bacon, egg, and cheese bagel. Extra bacon.

She must have told him that too, in between her rambles about Dominants and submissives and green ribbons and the voice of an angel. She'd smiled at him, teary-eyed, and their friendship had been set.

Quinn shook her head. "No." She shrugged. "She's here, I know she is. I can feel it. She's not dead, she hasn't left. She's here. I just don't know where."

Sam reached out to pat her shoulder. "You'll find her. Just got to keep looking."

Quinn smiled a little. "What about you?"

"Nah," Sam said, his expression saddening. "Same old thing, you know? Puck says he's not ready."

Unlike Quinn, Sam knew exactly where his dominant was, in a tiny run-down apartment on the other side of town. Bound together with Sam since the two boys were ten years old, Noah Puckerman nonetheless was, it seemed to Quinn, more interested in having fun and fooling around than staking his claim. It angered her, though she would never tell that to Sam. He was far too sweet, far too sensitive, and she didn't like feeling as if the other boy was bent on just playing with his emotions, keeping him tethered while keeping him at arm's length.

She'd once asked Sam if he thought he could find another Dominant.

Sam Evans had looked at her, his blue eyes clear and steady. "Can you find another girl?"

And she'd understood that. Oh, how she understood that. She could no more find another Rachel than she could stop drawing.

"Maybe he'll come around," Quinn offered, hoping she sounded more encouraging than she felt.

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said with a wry smile. "You know, he doesn't like…" Sam gestured, his hand falling them to his side. "What I do. Keeps talking about wanting to rescue me. He gets mad, but then, well, you haven't rescued me yet, have you, Puck?" His eyes took on a faraway look before focusing again, and he shrugged. "Yeah, that was unfair, sorry, dude."

Quinn glanced away, feeling as if she'd just intruded on a private moment. She wondered if Rachel ever felt that way, like Quinn was being unfair and expecting too much. She hoped not.

But then again, she was expecting too much.

"Don't give up," Sam said suddenly, as if he hadn't given Quinn this same speech a million times. "You love her, and you know, you say she loves you too. There's got to be a reason for all of this."

"Wish I knew what it was," Quinn muttered. "But she's so damn stubborn!" She said that last part loudly, with emphasis, in the hopes that the girl she was referring to would hear it. She gave Sam another small smile.

"I won't give up." She couldn't. She was bound.

"Good," Sam nodded, then, his laundry done, hopped off the washer and gathered it all into his own basket. He regarded Quinn seriously, saying "You're too good to give up on her. I mean I don't know, but she probably needs you."

Quinn thought about Sam's words as she finished up her laundry, as she did her homework, as she tried to drown out her thoughts by watching mindless late night television.

_She probably needs you._

Quinn tried to remind herself, as she took a shower, then as she brushed her teeth, then as she climbed into bed and pulled the covers around herself, that she was in New York to get an education. She was in New York to learn about art history. To learn about architecture and the Civil War, the Holocaust and narrative imagery. She wasn't there to stalk coffee shops and bookstores, to peer into windows like a madwoman, to have her heart race every time she caught a glimpse of brown eyes and curly brown hair…

Quinn growled and thumped her pillow with her fist, causing Van Gogh to jump off her bed with a hiss. Who was she kidding? She knew why she was in New York. She was there for one reason and one reason only.

To find Rachel Berry.

_She probably needs you._

"I love you," Quinn whispered into the dark silence of her bedroom. "I love you, little one. Please, where are you?"

Once again, to Quinn's wounded heart there came no answer.

Quinn nodded into her pillow. "Okay. Whenever you're ready." The words that had become her mantra for the past five years.

"I'm here, Rachel. Whenever you're ready. I'm here."


	3. Fit for a Princess

Quinn is excited.

She knows she and Rachel can't be together, not yet. She complained to Daddy about it but he'd just patted her head with a chuckle and said that finding each other when they were older would be part of Rachel and Quinn's fun.

Quinn doesn't think it sounds fun at all, but she knows it's how things are supposed to work. So even though they can't be together yet, it doesn't stop her from rushing around her room and making sure everything is set. Once she has everything arranged on the little drawing table in the center of the room, she hops on her bed and waits nervously.

At half past four the feeling slides into her, soft and sad, as if a small girl with brown hair and sorrowful eyes has climbed onto the bed with her. Quinn feels warmth tingling around her hand, and she knows Rachel is searching for comfort.

"Rachel?" her voice is a whisper.

"Mommy's mad at me."

It's only been two years, two years since Rachel scared Quinn so much that she screamed and ran into her parents' arms. Two years since she realized that she had a connection with someone she didn't even know, couldn't see except in her mind, couldn't speak to. Seven hundred thirty days filled with a constant presence, of comforting silence and the blissful knowledge of having a secret best friend, who would, one day, be Quinn's world.

Two years of too many moments like this. Moments when Rachel will come to her and put her hand in Quinn's, needing care and gentleness. Quinn is already sensitive, and being so attuned to Rachel makes it even harder to cope with the tears dotting her black eyelashes, and the haunted, wounded tone in her "voice." Quinn knows that Rachel's mother is pretty strict and yells a lot, but most of the time Rachel never talks to her about it, no matter how much Quinn asks. She just curls up in Quinn's heart and mind, aching for solace, and Quinn does whatever she can to offer it.

Taking a deep breath, she reaches out with her mind and envisions herself enfolding Rachel in her arms, giving her a hug. Then taking Rachel by the hand, she leads her to the little table.

"I-I got you a present." She picks it up with one hand. "It's a crown. It's silver, and it's shiny, and there's a little gold star at the very top. 'cause you're my gold star. Don't be sad, Princess Rachel. It'll be okay."

"Okay. I bet it's beautiful..."

Quinn nods to herself, and then picks up the match she'd stolen from the kitchen and quickly strikes it. She glances around, but when neither Daddy nor Mommy pops in to spank her for playing with fire, she lights the candle at the top of the cupcake and smiles.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Rachel, happy birthday to you…"

She pauses, feeling Rachel's spirits lift with the song. "Make a wish, Rachel."

There is a brief silence, and then, "I wish Quinn would find me."

Quinn nods again and says, with all the resolve in her nine year old heart, "I will. I promise."


	4. One Step Closer

Some people thought it was difficult to have a deep connection with another person, so deep that the other person seemed to be in your very mind, rather than just, well, reading it. Quinn had heard of a few people who had had to go into therapy once they had been bonded, because they'd found themselves unable to handle the sudden onslaught of thoughts and emotions that were no longer their own. There were even classes at the university on how to relax your mind so that the other person wouldn't feel or cause your agitation, and even classes on how to block your thoughts at certain times, if you needed to. That wasn't recommended; most experts said that if your intended's emotions were blocked for an extended period of time, it could be potentially damaging.

Quinn knew that well.

Maybe it was because it had happened when she was so young, at an age when many children still had imaginary friends, but Quinn had found it quite easy to adjust to the addition of Rachel Berry in her life and in her head. Mostly because Rachel's presence was comfortable, even familiar. Despite that initial fear the first time they had "talked," Rachel had slipped into Quinn's heart and mind almost as if she had always resided there. They made sure to be quiet in each other's minds while they were sleeping, or with their parents, or while in school, but most days Quinn couldn't wait until she could shut herself up in her room, or outside in her treehouse, and be alone with Rachel. They were far too young to understand the nature of their relationship, but Quinn knew that Rachel was her very own, that no one else could talk to Rachel the way she did, and the fact that they were both only children made their relationship even sweeter. Usually their days "together" were filled with laughter and quiet companionship, only broken every now and then by Rachel's soft sadness. Quinn hated those moments.

Rachel Berry lived in New York, Quinn had been able to discern. She couldn't tell Quinn where, since they were supposed to discover each other later in life, let fate run its course. Or at least that's what Daddy said, when he had admonished her to not tell Rachel anything other than that she lived in Ohio, and not to let Rachel tell her anything either Quinn wasn't sure she understood, but Rachel would never tell her, no matter how many times she'd asked (what Daddy couldn't hear couldn't hurt him, Quinn reasoned). But it was okay, Quinn had decided, the where wasn't important. What was important was that her name was Rachel Barbra Berry, she was six years old, and she lived in New York with her mommy Shelby.

Quinn had been surprised that Rachel didn't have a daddy, since she'd thought that _everyone_ had a daddy. In fact, she thought everyone should have a daddy just like hers: tall and blonde, with a booming laugh, and who worked a lot but always came into her bedroom to kiss her good night before she went to sleep. But no, it was just Rachel and her mommy, Rachel had said, a little bit wistfully. She'd tried to hide that, but it was easy to catch on to when you were so in tune with someone's thoughts. Rachel wanted a daddy like Quinn had, someone to swing her around onto his shoulders when they walked through downtown, or to tuck her in bed at night with a kiss and a "Night night, don't let the bed bugs bite!", then tickling her until she giggled. It made Quinn sad, knowing that Rachel would never have that, but she tried not to mention it for Rachel's sake.

One thing that Quinn didn't like was when Rachel would tell her about school. Or when Rachel would come home quiet and unsettled, and Quinn knew that the kids had been at it again. Rachel went to a school just down the street from her house, with children who were a little bit richer, a little higher in status than the daughter of a single mother. But Rachel was a lot smarter, and a lot more talented, and that, Quinn knew, could be a recipe for disaster. And for her shy, sensitive little "friend," it was. Quinn had no idea why Rachel's school had a slushie machine in the cafeteria, nor why everyone seemed to make it a sport to throw slushies in Rachel's face. It made her angry, knowing that they made fun of _her_ Rachel, and she longed to race to New York and beat up all of them. But she was too young and she wouldn't even know what school to go to, so she had to be content to give Rachel a hug in her mind, and then distract her with movies or music.

Rachel loved to sing. Quinn loved that Rachel loved to sing, except on those days when Quinn was tired or cranky and Rachel insisted on singing _all the time_. Okay, she secretly loved it even then, but pretended to be fussy about it just so she could "apologize" and make Rachel sing again. Quinn liked to sing too, in her house with her Mommy while they were cleaning, or with Daddy when he'd put on his old records on a Sunday afternoon, but there was nothing like Rachel's voice. Quinn's favorite thing was to lie in her bed at night, knowing that Rachel was falling asleep in her own, and hear the soft, tired sound of her beautiful voice filling the room.

But Rachel's mom… didn't like Rachel to sing. It made Rachel sad, and Quinn didn't understand it, but she knew Shelby yelled a lot, mostly when she'd catch Rachel singing, and so gradually, Rachel didn't sing much at all anymore.

Quinn didn't like Shelby. But she didn't ever tell Rachel that.

Besides, she was pretty sure Rachel knew it anyway, and that's why she never really talked about her mother that much. Instead, Rachel would fill her own mind with happy thoughts so that Quinn wouldn't worry. Thoughts about things Quinn didn't really understand: Broadway, musicals. Wicked and Rent. Or she'd excitedly think about what her life would be like with Quinn when they were older. They had just started their new adventure together, neither of them old enough to know what it really meant, but both of them alive with the fire of hope and possibility. And Quinn loved it because she could feel the happiness and contentment that would settle in Rachel's belly, and she could hear the light, lilting tune of the song Rachel would begin to hum, before she'd startle, suddenly aware of what she was doing, and stop. To Quinn, that stop was the worst thing in the world. Rachel was meant to sing, and she couldn't understand why her mother didn't want her to.

Now, at 19 years old, Quinn had searched the internet for "Shelby Berry" more times than she cared to admit, and come up empty handed every time. She'd wanted to search for Rachel, too, but oddly enough, Quinn was afraid to. Afraid of what she might discover, afraid of what she'd be forced to know. So she didn't. Her mother and father kept reassuring her that if it was meant to be, it would happen. She'd find Rachel, and things would work out.

"Love always wins," her grandma also would keep reminding her.

But Quinn, as she sat in her apartment and scratched Van's head absently – to his utter aggravation – didn't necessarily believe that. She shook her head when Van rolled over and offered up his tummy for rubs; it was the only thing that kept him happy.

"You're spoiled, you know?" she said, grinning when the low rumbled purr began. "Such a spoiled, ungrateful boy." He batted at her with his paw and she laughed. "Yeah, I still love you."

Love always wins.

It hurt, being so close to Rachel yet so far away. She had thought that nothing would ever hurt so much as that day when she was 15 years old. But going through the next four years had been worse. Knowing that Rachel was alive, and in New York, and that Quinn had to wait until she could get to her, to be with her… and now that she was _in_ New York, knowing that she had no clue where to look, and that Rachel wasn't going to make it easier for her…

She'd thought about hiring a private detective. Then she'd be guaranteed to find answers, and she knew her parents would be willing to pay, if only to see her happy. But that felt to Quinn like she'd be cheating… God or fate or whatever it was that ordained she be in this situation – bonded to a girl that no longer wanted her. And so she didn't.

But that didn't stop her from wishing.

Tuesday was Quinn's "no class" day. Also known as Lounge Around In Pajamas Day, No Really I'm Not Getting Out of Bed Day, and Crap I Have No Food Time to Go to the Store Day. She'd had cereal earlier that morning but if she wanted to eat dinner she seriously needed to get some motivation, so she stood up from the couch, grinning again when Van meowed his disapproval.

"You have food," she reminded him. "If you want to keep having it, then Food Person needs some as well. So I have to go to the store, lazy cat."

Once dressed, Quinn headed down the stairwell and out into the cold New York afternoon. It had taken her some time to adjust to living in New York; in fact, if it hadn't been for Rachel, Quinn probably would have gone back to Lima the first week, despite the fact that she was smart, and had gotten into NYU based on that. Every indicator pointed to Quinn Fabray living up to her designation as Most Likely to Succeed in the McKinley High School yearbook.

Compared to Rachel, Quinn had had an easy childhood, and an even easier high school career. She was the pretty, popular blonde girl, captain of the cheerleading squad – following in her mother's footsteps – and paramour of all the football players. In fact just after… _it_ had happened, when she was 15, Quinn had tried to date to help her "get over" Rachel. His name was Finn, and he was the star quarterback. It could have made for the perfect fairytale: the quarterback and the cheerleader in a romance for the ages, happily ever after.

But Finn was a Dom, and a boy who didn't really know how to be in a relationship at that; and Quinn was a Domme whose heart had belonged to someone else for eight years. Not to mention that someone else was a girl. Their relationship had fizzled a few months later; Quinn didn't know what had happened to Finn after high school. She'd lost touch with pretty much everyone after graduation, her mind had been so focused on finding Rachel.

Despite her failure at getting over Rachel, Quinn hadn't lacked for any friends in high school, but she had never felt like any of them were true friends. The other girls on the squad, Quinn felt like they were little more than hangers-on, pretending to be loyal to her because they thought it might give them an in with Coach Sylvester, the brutal yet matter of fact dictator of the squad. Oddly enough it was Coach Sylvester who had seemed most sympathetic of Quinn's plight; Quinn had spent countless afternoons in the woman's office trying to make sense of things. Sylvester hadn't been any help to her with that, but still it was nice to have an ear offered to her every now and then. Most of the students Quinn's age were either happily bound or still eagerly awaiting the arrival of The One; none of them knew what it was like to have a connection so unceremoniously torn from them.

In fact, no one in Quinn's society really knew what that was like. Having a connection severed was almost unheard of, and as such there were very little resources at Quinn's disposal. This had angered her parents, because Quinn had been devastated, and barely able to function for the entire summer. A therapist was brought in, but he'd just made things worse by patting Quinn on the shoulder and saying that perhaps it was all for the best anyway, maybe she just wasn't ready to be a Dominant.

She'd chased him out of the house and he hadn't dared to come back the next day.

But other than talking to Coach Sylvester, Quinn hadn't had anyone that she could talk to, to tell them about how difficult it was, to go from knowing someone so well to suddenly… knowing nothing about where she had gone, what she had been thinking, what she needed. But it had been Sylvester who had offered the only suggestion that made sense, the only thing she was able to cling to, to make things easier.

"Maybe you ought to go to New York."

Those eight words, spoken in an office when she was sixteen years old, had set everything in motion. She had thought when she was younger and she and Rachel were still connected, that perhaps Rachel would want to come to Ohio. It had made Quinn smile, the thought of Rachel joining her, and the two of them setting up a little house in Columbus or Cincinnati. Quinn would be an art teacher or an illustrator for one of the small, independent publishing houses, and Rachel would, of course, be a singer, maybe with one of the local theaters. Because with Quinn, Rachel would always be allowed to sing.

With Quinn, Rachel would be allowed to be herself. No more bullying, no more yelling. Just Rachel, safe and cared for, together with Quinn.

But then it had happened, and Quinn knew that the only way she and Rachel were going to be together was if Quinn found her, as she had promised to do all those years ago.

So Quinn had thrown herself even harder into her studies. A dedicated student already, she'd increased her efforts ten-fold, even giving up the cheerleading squad so she could devote more time. That had made Sylvester mad, but Quinn didn't care. National competitions paled in comparison to her need for Rachel. Her parents were concerned; worried that she was devoting herself to a lost cause, but despite her love for Rachel Quinn also had the desire to be successful in her own right. That had reassured her parents enough, and everything else fell into place. She'd graduated top of her class with a full ride to New York University's College of Arts and Sciences.

Quinn was on her way.

And then she'd made it to New York, and her future hit her with full force. To say that the young girl from the small town of Lima, Ohio experienced a severe culture shock was an understatement. Everything in New York had been so different, from the attitudes of the people to the buildings to the traffic to the weather… everything. And within a week Quinn's hopes and dreams were fading fast, and she would've called it quits and run home to her parents with her tail tucked between her legs if it hadn't been for the endless, pressing thought of Rachel, and the gentleness of a new friend named Sam.

As she walked towards the grocery store on the corner, her favorite in the city, Quinn realized that she didn't much feel like shopping after all. She had a drawing pad and her pencils in the bag that she always wore strapped to her back, so perhaps a walk through the park, and then a nice bench to sit on for a picture. One of the best things about New York was that there was no shortage of parks or benches.

No shortage of theaters, either. After she'd gotten over her initial homesickness, one of the first things Quinn had done was see as many musicals as possible. She saw Wicked twice, since that seemed to be the one that was Rachel's favorite. There was a revival of Rent, and that had quickly become Quinn's favorite, so she saw it three more times before it finally closed down a few months later. What followed was a frantic stream of front rows, mezzanines, nosebleed sections… Quinn Fabray gave herself a crash course in musicals, if for the simple reason that it made her feel somehow closer to the girl she hadn't heard from in almost 5 years. It came with its own sadness; she wished more than anything that she was sitting with Rachel in those rows, or that she was sitting in the audience watching _Rachel_. Gradually it had gotten to be too much for Quinn to bear, and like Rachel had stopped singing, Quinn stopped going to the theater.

She'd go back, she told herself. She'd go back with Rachel, when Rachel was hers again.

Lost in her thoughts, Quinn had wandered a little further into the city than she had in her entire year there, and her eyes widened when she saw the stretch of unfamiliar shops and restaurants laid out before her. But rather than feel worried, she was excited. Here was a new discovery, a new chance at finding the frayed end of that green ribbon, and connecting it with hers. Her feet began to carry her down the sidewalk quickly; she laughed a little to herself, wondering if now she was walking like a true New Yorker.

Her eyes scanned the storefronts; she glanced into the windows of restaurants and felt that familiar frustration well within her as each glance was met with no sign of the object of her search. But still she walked on; still she looked, even ducking into one particularly seedy-seeming pharmacy. But she quickly stepped back out, concluding that there didn't appear to be any _legal_ drug transactions going on in there, and perhaps it was best if she went somewhere else. She kept on until she reached the end of the row of buildings, the end of the sidewalk, and Quinn sighed. A small, mostly empty park was laid out now in front of her; tired and hungry she decided to give up her search for the moment.

What would she do if she found Rachel, anyway? Quinn thought to herself as she took a seat on a bench and pulled out her drawing pad and pencils. She'd thought about this every day of her life for the last 5 years. Would she run up to her and give her a hug? Would she be shy and quiet, awkward after having not talked to her so long? Or would she throw Rachel over her lap and spank her for leaving her in a constant state of worry and silence?

… that last choice probably wouldn't go over well.

But the truth was, Quinn didn't know what she would do. She knew what she wanted to do: take Rachel in her arms, take her _home_, and tell her everything would be okay. That everything would always be okay, as long as they were together, and to please not shut her out again. She'd take Rachel home, fix her dinner, dance with her, sing with her, and take Rachel to her bedroom.

Then gently, ever so gently, with all the love and care in her heart, Quinn would guide her submissive to her knees.

She just… had to find her, first.

Quinn glanced down at her paper to see what she had been drawing without focusing on it, and she almost laughed out loud. This always happened, she thought to herself, the fingers of her left hand lightly stroking over the image on the paper, the pencil marks smearing. She continued to run her hand over it, until the tips of her fingers were gray and the features on the paper obscured. The prominent nose, the dark eyes, the curly hair, dark brown to almost black. Rachel Berry at eighteen. Or at least, how Quinn imagined she would look.

Her stomach growled, and Quinn decided that she had been defeated enough for the day, it was time to get something to eat and head home to Van. She still had chapters to read for her classes tomorrow, something that she was actually looking forward to. The girls of her sorority called her a nerd, a badge Quinn wore with pride.

She stowed her drawing pad and pencils back into her bag and glanced around. A diner sat at the corner on the other side of the park and Quinn shrugged. It was better than nothing, and she hadn't eaten there before. Maybe there'd be something there that she hadn't discovered. She trudged toward it, hearing the quickening wind whistle, and she shivered, pulling her coat tight around her. Glancing to her left she thought she saw the merest wisp of a green ribbon dangling off one of the trees; Quinn blinked and it was gone.

She shook her head. "Now you've really gone off your rocker, Fabray," she muttered to herself.

A bell sounded over the door as she opened it and pushed herself inside the diner; it was empty except for herself and the "chef," who poked his head out from the kitchen and nodded in greeting.

"Have a seat," he called. "My darn waitress is late _again_; if she doesn't get here in the next few minutes I'll come and take your order. Make it too. Best food in the borough, you'll see."

Quinn smiled a little. "Take your time; I'm not in a hurry." Her stomach growled again as if to say yes, we are in a hurry, but Quinn ignored it. She was more tired than anything. Tired of searching, of worrying, of always wondering. Wishing and waiting. Once again that ugly self-doubt reared its head, telling her that she should give up. She should just give up and move on, because no person was worth waiting this long for, especially when it seemed that they were thwarting her efforts with every turn.

Rachel was worth it, Quinn stubbornly told herself, trying to silence all the discouragement. Rachel would always be worth it.

The bell sounded again and Quinn made a face, but didn't look up from the menu; she had hoped she would be alone to enjoy her dinner in peace. But maybe the newest patron wouldn't be loud and obnoxious; maybe they wouldn't try to talk to her or worse, ask her out.

"You're late!" the cook barked from the kitchen.

Ah, the waitress.

"I'm sorry!" she called, sounding contrite and distressed, and Quinn's world fell out from under her.

She'd know that voice anywhere.

She knew that voice even before she'd turned around and saw the tiny figure pulling off her coat, revealing a comically retro white uniform skirt and top with a pink apron. She knew the voice even before she recognized the cascade of brown-black curls falling over her shoulders before it was hastily pulled back into a ponytail, the long, dark eyelashes fluttering over tan cheeks.

"Yeah I bet you are, that's the third time this week! Whatever, you got a customer."

"I know, I know," she said, and Quinn felt the tears rush to her eyes.

She was rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away as the girl approached her, all smiles with a dimple on her cheek and the nameplate over her right breast confirming what Quinn already knew, had always known since she was 7 years old, and would always know, for the rest of her life.

"What can I get you?" the girl said.

What could she _say_? What did she call her? The girl was watching her quizzically as Quinn's mind raced through the possibilities.

Princess. Gold star. Little one.

"Are you all right?"

Quinn licked her lips, struggling, and finally the word came, soft and low.

"Rachel."


	5. Stay With Me

It's ridiculous, really.

There's no way she has a fever. Thirteen year olds don't _get_ fevers. They don't get fevers, they don't get sore throats, and they _definitely_ don't need to be sent to bed at _nine o'clock_ so they can _rest_.

She can feel the amusement and Quinn groans, flopping over on her stomach and hiding her head under a pillow. "Go away," she mumbles into the mattress, but she doesn't mean it. Rachel's mother has been home all day, which means they've had limited time together, and Quinn's missed her. Being sick makes her… clingy.

She feels the slipping away; she did, after all, give an order, and so Quinn is quick to scramble back around. "No, Rachel, stay, I'm sorry."

_Hmph_.

Quinn smiles a little. "I feel awful."

_I'm sorry. Anything I can do?_

"Stay with me, that's all I need."

And so Rachel stays. She stays and does her homework, she stays until Shelby yells for her to come have dinner. She comes back twenty minutes later with a sadness that she quickly pushes away, not answering Quinn's queries. She stays as Quinn grumpily pouts that she has work to do, and she's going to miss school tomorrow, which means she'll miss cheerleading practice. She stays and smiles while Quinn is treated to ice cream – Quinn can't remember Rachel ever having ice cream – and she's quiet and soft as Quinn drifts in and out of sleep.

It's 4 a.m. when she awakes again, and Quinn realizes Rachel hasn't left. She's on her bed, in her little pink room, in her pajamas, reading a book about Barbra by flashlight.

"Rach," Quinn says hoarsely. "You have school."

_You told me to stay. And even if you hadn't, I would have anyway. I don't like it when you're sick._

She sounds upset, tearful, and Quinn reaches out as best she can to calm her. Rachel's heaviness in her mind tells her how sleepy the girl is, and Quinn hates that there's only 2 hours before Shelby will come to "wake" Rachel for her before-school exercise routine.

"Thank you for staying," she whispers, resolving to stay awake until Rachel has to leave. "You didn't have to, really."

_Yes, I did. Because I'm yours._


	6. Ranch Dressing

"I'm sorry, do I-I know you?"

Oh, she was beautiful. Quinn knew she must look like a madwoman, her eyes roving over Rachel like a starving person. But it had been four – almost five – four years of nothing. No voice, no soft presence, no glimpse, and now… now there she was. There she was, and she was beautiful, all tan skin and flowing hair and a strange expression on her face. Her legs under the skirt seemed to go on for miles; the little girl had clearly turned into a gorgeous young woman. Quinn felt the tears begin to trickle down her face as she looked at Rachel, seeking to memorize every inch of her. Her portraits hadn't been that far off, she realized; she'd probably made Rachel's nose a little bigger than it actually was, and Quinn barely fought off a laugh, thinking how offended the petite girl would be once she heard _that_. But she needed to stop staring, she needed to get control of herself, and so Quinn took a deep breath, flexing her fingers against the table.

She smiled up at her. "I've missed you, Rach," she said, and her voice was hoarse from the tears that were still coursing over her cheeks.

The waitress shook her head. "I think… I'm sorry, but I-I think you have me confused with someone else," she said.

Quinn furrowed her brow in confusion. This was _her_ Rachel, wasn't it? Well, of course it was: the height was the same, the brown hair and eyes were the same, the lyrical voice was the same. Just a bit older, and there was a strained smile on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes. And what was she doing waitressing in a place like this, Quinn wondered, finally taking in the stained tabletops and the grubby counters, the greasy smells coming from the kitchen. Rachel should be on Broadway by now, or at least going to school somewhere.

But this was definitely her Rachel, down to the way the girl was now worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Even the way she moved, slowly while doing such mundane things, but with so much grace and poise. Almost as if she was constantly on a stage. It was so very Rachel that Quinn could almost cry with it – if she wasn't already crying.

So why didn't she—

"Rachel?" Quinn said suddenly, panic and fear creeping into her voice. "Don't you remember me?"

The smile was a little broader, but again it didn't reach her eyes, and the voice was pleasant, polite, and fake when she spoke, so that Quinn shuddered. "No, I'm sorry, I don't. I really don't t-think that I'm the same R-Rachel you're looking for."

"Oh. Could I- could I have some water please?"

Quinn stared down at her hands as Rachel walked off; her heart felt as if it had plummeted to the soles of her feet.

Rachel had forgotten her.

They had told her that this might happen; despite all the therapists Quinn had talked to, despite all the times that she had spent holed up in Sylvester's office crying out her fear and confusion, no one really knew what went on when a connection was severed. Her parents were powerless to offer any explanation; no amount of money that they could pay to any expert brought Quinn the answers she was searching for. The connection was gone, that was all anyone knew. No one knew if it could be repaired; no one knew if it would cause irrevocable damage to either, or both, parties. Quinn was certainly damaged, she'd felt; by the time she'd gone back to school everyone knew that she was the girl whose intended had left her. She'd had to endure the whispers in the hallway, the giggles as the girls on her squad asked each other what Quinn had done to run off her soul mate.

And then she'd worried about what had happened to Rachel. Every day she worried whether the girl – _her _girl – was safe and happy. Protected. Loved. It had driven her insane until she'd begged her parents on her sixteenth birthday to let her go to New York early. But they had refused, terrified of losing their daughter to the big city, and also terrified of what might happen if she followed through on her promise and located Rachel. They had warned her against finding Rachel, saying that she didn't know what it would do to the girl, to suddenly be confronted with her past. They couldn't even tell Quinn if Rachel would remember.

Clearly she didn't.

But Quinn remembered. She remembered everything. The first time she'd met Rachel, being so scared and confused. She remembered the nervous, awkward few days afterward, how Rachel would approach her shyly and sweetly, almost as if she was meeting Quinn for the first time again. And then things had slowly changed. Slowly she and Rachel had begun to grow closer, become more relaxed and open with each other until finally everything began to click and soon it was as if they had never been strangers, as if they really had been matched before the world had even began.

She remembered how Rachel's smile always reached her eyes, how her eyes would light up and sparkle almost as if Rachel didn't just like gold stars, but _was_ one, and it showed through. She remembered how Rachel would giggle when she was happy, how her happiness would fill Quinn up and there was nothing more that she would want in life than for Rachel to always feel that. She remembered the sad things too: how things never seemed quite right with Rachel sometimes, but Rachel would never tell her. How Quinn wanted to scoop Rachel up in her arms and make it right any time she realized the little girl was sad. The times she had gone to her parents and begged them to help her find Rachel, to adopt Rachel, and her dad or mom would just hug her and tell her with kind words that it just didn't work that way, because then Rachel would be her sister and that would just be, well, awkward.

And even as her hands clutched the table to steady herself because she was shaking with her quiet sobs, Quinn smiled a little, remembering how Rachel had always been a terrible liar. How she would stutter and chew on her lower lip, how her hands would tremble…

The glass of water rattled a little against the table as the waitress sat it down in front of Quinn; her vision cleared long enough to notice the girl's hand shaking. Quinn raised her head and met Rachel's eyes.

Rachel looked away, but she didn't move from her spot at Quinn's side.

Her lip was firmly tucked between her bottom teeth.

She had stuttered.

Her hand was trembling.

And her eyes were full of tears.

Quinn shut her own eyes briefly, before reopening them. Her hands ached to touch Rachel, to bring the girl into her arms, but now Rachel was walking away. Quinn controlled herself, instead saying softly, "Rachel. _Princess._"

Rachel stopped, her hands limp at her sides and her head bowed even as she kept her back to Quinn. And Quinn knew.

She remembered.

"Please go away. Please." Rachel's voice was little more than a whisper.

"You never were good at pretending," Quinn said, wiping her eyes and her own voice coming a little stronger now. "Oh, you're a very good actress, weren't you always telling me about the plays you'd put on with your stuffed animals? But you never could lie to me."

"I'll tell him," Rachel said, and Quinn saw her tip her head, just slightly, toward the kitchen. "He'll make you leave me alone."

She didn't care what Rachel told the cook, wild horses couldn't drag her away from the diner at that moment.

"Haven't you missed me?" Quinn asked, annoyed that the question came out more desperate than she had wanted to. "It's been four years, Rachel, haven't you… thought about me at all in that time?"

Rachel turned around, her arms folded across her chest as she regarded Quinn defiantly. "No," she said. "I h-haven't. I haven't missed you at a-all. Never thought about you once, as a matter of fact."

The words would have hurt her, should have hurt her, if Quinn had believed them for an instant. But the tell was there, the gentle stumbling over, and instead they filled her with hope. Rachel had missed her.

"Stop lying," Quinn said sharply, but instantly felt guilty when Rachel winced and backed away. "I found you," Quinn said, her hands rising up from the table, palms out, as if in supplication. "I told you I would."

"Yes, you found me," Rachel bit out, "Though I haven't the slightest idea why you bothered. As you can see I am perfectly happy and fine, and I haven't m-missed you, and you can leave."

Quinn quirked an eyebrow. "Actually," she said, drawing out the word a little, "I'm rather hungry." She picked up the menu with an exaggerated gesture, glancing down it and picking out the first thing her eyes landed on. "Bring me a double cheeseburger with fries, no ketchup."

Now Rachel's hands were on her hips, her mouth a thin stretched line as she regarded Quinn with anger. "I don't have to do what you tell me to!" she snapped. "You're not my—" She stopped and looked around, lowering her voice, but the venom was still present. "You're not my dominant."

_That_ hurt Quinn, but she tried not to show it. Instead, she calmly kept her gaze on Rachel as she said matter-of-factly, "On the contrary, Rachel, you _do_ have to do as I say, because you're my _waitress_. A double cheeseburger with fries, no ketchup."

"You got an order?" the cook said, poking his head from out of the kitchen.

Rachel audibly huffed, throwing up her hands and stalking off in the direction of the kitchen, and Quinn's smile broadened, just slightly.

She'd missed the storm-outs.

Quinn took a deep breath, trying to steady herself and not jump with excitement at the fact that Rachel, _her_ Rachel, was here. She'd found her. After all this time… she needed to tell Sam! She needed to tell Sam, and she needed to phone her parents. She'd need a new apartment. A new, bigger apartment with a bigger bed for both of them. And she'd get Rachel out of this… she glanced around. Out of this crappy diner in an even crappier neighborhood.

What was she _doing_ working here? Quinn wondered again. There were so many questions she had to ask, so many things she wanted to know. But there would be plenty of time to ask the questions and get the answers, and to share everything that had happened to _her_ in their time apart. There was a _lifetime_ for her and Rachel to get reacquainted.

"So's why were you late?"

Quinn craned her ear toward the kitchen, just barely able to discern the voices. Rachel's was so low she had to strain, but even then she caught the sadness in her tone as she answered.

"Mom and I had an argument."

"Again? What for this time?"

Rachel laughed a little, a dry sound absent of any humor. "What do we always argue about? I wanted to go see a show."

"Wicked?"

"Yeah."

"You seen it ten times already."

"So?"

"She say no?"

"I don't need to waste my time sitting in an overpriced uncomfortable seat listening in horrid acoustics to even more horrible performers for the sake of a childish fairytale."

"Ouch. Sorry, kid. You really ought to move. Strike out on your own, you can do it!"

"Not on your salary." Rachel sounded a little more jovial, more like herself, and Quinn smiled even as the horrible realization that things hadn't changed for Rachel began to sink in.

"Please don't dock my pay… I'm sorry I was late."

"Nah, don't worry. Hey, take some cheesecake home with ya when you go. That'll cheer her up. Or shut her up, maybe that's better."

"Thanks, Burt, I appreciate it."

Quinn pretended not to have heard when Rachel came back to her table, unceremoniously plunking the plate down in front of her and stalking back off again. Quinn was of the mind to lecture her about being polite, but something on the plate stopped her. There, nestled in the mound of fries that was next to the cheeseburger, was a small cup of ranch dressing.

Rachel had always teased her that ranch dressing with fries was gross. And Quinn had always retorted that it was a good thing _she_ was the one that was eating it that way then, not Rachel. Quinn traced the rim of the cup with her finger, feeling the tears threaten to overwhelm her again. It was such a small thing, just a little clear plastic cup with some watered-down dressing that had probably been sitting on a shelf for months… But it was proof. Like the thin fiber of a ribbon found in the laundry, it was real, tangible proof that something had existed. A frayed thread of memory linking them together, an unprompted remembrance of the past, and Quinn lifted her eyes from the plate to see Rachel sat on the stool at the counter across the floor, staring at her while pretending not to watch.

"Thank you," Quinn said. It sounded absurd, inadequate, but it was the only thing that she could offer, she was so shocked by a silly cup in a bed of fries.

"Why are you here?"

Quinn winced at the question, pausing to spear the dressing with a fry and pop one into her mouth. Hmm, not too bad, she noted with satisfaction; she really was hungry. She chewed, mulling over her answer, and swallowed before speaking.

"I made a promise."

"I didn't expect you to keep it."

"Well, I did," Quinn said, exasperated. "Honestly, Rachel, it's good to see that you're still as stubborn as ever."

"Please just leave me alone."

"I _can't_," Quinn said, the tears starting again. "Rachel, I've talked to you every night for four years, just hoping that you'd talk back to me, do you know what that's like?"

"No, I don't." Rachel spun idly around on the stool, a gesture that both infuriated Quinn and made her want to laugh at how little-girl-like it was. She finally stopped and looked at Quinn.

"I didn't hear it."

Quinn tilted her head in confusion. "Didn't hear what?"

"I didn't hear it. You talking every night for the last four years. I haven't heard any of it."

Quinn drew back, the knowledge of it making her feel sick to the pit of her stomach. She shoved the plate of half-eaten food away from her. "You didn't… hear me."

"It's gone," Rachel said, shrugging as if she were speaking of the most mundane thing in the world, instead of the connection that she once shared with her soul mate. "It's gone, and it's never going to be back. That's why you shouldn't have found me. Because what you're hoping for, it's not there anymore. I made sure of it. It's gone, and it'll always be gone."

"Be quiet," Quinn whispered, one hand lifting to her ear as if she could block out the words, block out the reality.

Rachel regarded her sadly. "You should never have come here, because what you want doesn't exist anymore. Maybe it never existed in the first place."

"Be. Quiet!" Quinn snapped, slamming her hand on the table.

"Hey, is there a problem out here?" Burt poked his head out and Quinn looked away, breathing hard.

It wasn't gone. She knew it wasn't. It had never been gone. At least not for her, and now she knew that Rachel remembered.

That was something, right? There had to be some hope there.

"No problem," Rachel called back, before glancing at Quinn. "Just a case of mistaken identity," she added softly.

"I'm not mistaken," Quinn said, shaking her head rapidly. "I'm not." She pointed to her heart. "It's here." The ranch cup. "And there." Rachel's heart. "And there. It's there, Rachel, and you can try to fight it as much as you want. But I promised you I would find you, and I have. And I am _not_ giving you up again."

Rachel hopped off the counter and began to wipe down the tables, even though there had been no other customers except for Quinn. "I never asked you to find me, and I never asked you to fight for a lost cause." She kept her back to Quinn again as she spoke, her voice mournful. "But you found me, and I hope you found what you're looking for. An 18 year old waitress, working in a diner. Fine. Healthy. And… happy."

She looked over her shoulder at Quinn. "You found me, Quinn, now you can go back to wherever your home is and find someone else. Someone who can be… what you want her to be."

"You're who I want," Quinn insisted. "Rachel, you know how this works."

"It stopped working when you were fifteen years old, Quinn. I made sure of it. Now please leave. And for your sake, don't come back."

She sat in the diner for a while longer, hoping that Rachel would come back over and talk to her. Look at her, acknowledge her in some way, but she didn't. She just wiped tables, or spun on the stool, or waited on the other customers that slowly began to trickle in, all the while humming a tune that Quinn tried hard to recognize, but couldn't.

It was only when she left the diner, leaning against the hard brick outside as she cried, that she realized it was the first time she'd heard Rachel say her name in four years.

It was Sam who found her in the common room hours later, just as the sky had gotten dark. There were no lights, and she sat in a chair with Van on her lap. He hissed as Sam approached, jumping down and skulking off to the corner when he handed Quinn a bag of takeout.

"I don't think your cat likes me."

Quinn shrugged, opening up a container of beef lo mein. "He hates everybody. Even me."

"You've been down here ever since you got home," Sam said, digging into his sweet and sour chicken. He stopped with the chopsticks halfway to his mouth and shrugged at Quinn's raised eyebrow. "What, you live down the hall. I notice things."

"Stalker," she teased, and then sighed, picking at the food.

"And you're sitting in the dark. That means two things. Either you're sad because you still haven't found Rachel, or—"

"I found her," Quinn finished miserably.

"Whoa."

"Yeah. Whoa."

"Well, I'd say congratulations," Sam said around a mouthful of food, and Quinn wrinkled her nose. "But you've been down here since you got home, sitting in the dark."

"She pretended she didn't know me. And then when I called her out on it, she said that she was a lost cause, that I never should have found her, and that it'd be better if I just went home and found someone worthy of me."

"Hey!" Sam said, splaying out his arms and giving Quinn a wink.

Quinn laughed, the first genuine laugh she'd had all day. "That would be such an awkward relationship," she said, sticking her tongue out at him. She sobered then and shook her head. "She's not happy, Sam. She pretends to be, but she's not, and I can tell. And I think she wants this, I think she wanted me to find her, but she's fighting it."

"She must have a good reason then," Sam mused. He stretched out his legs and let out a belch. "She'd have to have a good reason to resist fate."

"You," Quinn pointed with her chopsticks, "are so gross. Such a catch."

Sam's smile faded, and he looked at Quinn. "Do you think I am? A catch?"

Quinn sighed and put down her food, feeling guilty. She reached across the chair to lay a hand on Sam's arm. "You're a guy who brought me Chinese food just because I'm sad and moaning over some girl. And you don't even swing my way. So if Puck can't see how amazing you are yet, that's his problem. And you can tell him I said that, Sammy."

He offered her a half-hearted smile. "I meant what I said, you know, about her having a good reason."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's fate, right?" Sam said, and Quinn nodded. "I mean that's what we're taught when we're kids, that it's fate, and no matter what we do, whoever has our heart has it for life. And even if we never find him – or her – they're still the one for us."

"You're not helping very much," Quinn said, poking at her food again. She'd once thought that never finding Rachel would be the worst pain imaginable. But now that she _had_ found her, and Rachel didn't even want her, couldn't hardly even acknowledge that she remembered her… Quinn wasn't sure if never finding your soul mate was such a bad thing after all.

"Yeah, sorry, not so good with words. Next time I'll put it in comic form." Sam nudged Quinn with his elbow and she grinned. His apartment was filled with wall-to-wall comic books, and she was pretty sure Sam had memorized them all.

"What I mean is, you can't give up just because she says for you to. That's not you, first of all, and second of all, that's not how this works."

"Tried to tell her that too," Quinn pointed out. "She said it stopped working when I was fifteen, because she made it stop."

"Stubborn little shit, isn't she?"

Sam grinned apologetically, showing that he was teasing, and Quinn shook her head. "Yeah, but I love the little shit."

"And that's my point," Sam said. "Rachel knows it's real. She has to. She might've broken it, but that means it was there at some point, right? And you said she remembered. So no matter what happens she's always got that memory of what life was like before. And I don't know… memory's powerful stuff."

_Memory's powerful stuff._

Quinn kept replaying Sam's words over and over in her head, long after he had gone back to his apartment and she was still sat downstairs in the darkened common room. Van had padded back over and jumped into her lap, seeming to sense that she needed him. "You're good for something, cat," she joked lightly, stroking his fur and humming to herself.

Van ignored her, preferring to bat at the strip of paper that rested on the arm of the chair, a fortune from one of the cookies.

A story that ends on hope does not end at all.

She stopped mid-hum, her eyes widening as she suddenly recognized the tune. It was the same tune Rachel had been humming earlier, a tune both of them knew well. A lullaby that Quinn would sing, over and over, when a little girl would come to her, sad and lonely and in need of comfort.

_Twinkle, twinkle little star… how I wonder what you are._

An unprompted remembrance of the past.

_Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky._

A frayed thread of memory.

Quinn stood up so quickly that Van toppled off her lap, yowling in protest before pouncing off ahead of her on the way back to their apartment. She followed him, then stopped and circled back into the room to pick up the fortune. She looked at it with a smile, before kissing it and slipping it back into her pocket.

_Twinkle, twinkle little star… how I wonder what you are._


	7. 1866

_Skritch, skritch._

That's the pencil.

_Scuff, scuff._

That's the eraser.

_Sigh._

And that is Rachel. The pattern has repeated itself for the last 30 minutes, and Quinn, as patient as she can be, is becoming annoyed. She is at her desk, working on her math homework, which will take her only another five minutes because Quinn Fabray always gets an A in math. Well, she gets an A in everything, but math is the easiest. And history.

Rachel, on the other hand, is laying stomach-down on her own bed, legs bent up at the knees and her feet kicking aimlessly. One hand is tucked against her cheek; the other is furiously erasing what seems to be the tenth start to an essay for her history class. In spite her annoyance Quinn is smiling a little at the eleven-year-old's antics; Rachel has a habit of making things far more dramatic than what they actually are.

Normally it doesn't bother Quinn, even if does come at inopportune times, such as when Rachel broke one of her Barbra Streisand cds on accident and _Quinn_ had to skip a test at school and come home because _she_ couldn't deal with the emotional trauma.

But today she is trying to get her homework done, and so when Rachel sighs again for the thousandth time, Quinn turns away from her book.

_Just write about Broadway._

_I did that for the last 5 essays, Quinn._

_Wow._

_It isn't my fault they can't see the value of continued education on the history of the Great White Way._

Quinn shuts her book. She can get the rest of it done in the morning.

_Come on._ She shuts her eyes and imagines resting her hand lightly, reassuringly on Rachel's shoulder._ Let's write about the increase in business and population in New York after the Civil War._

_Why then?_

_Because The Black Crook, the very first musical, premiered in 1866._

Rachel smiles.

_Perfect._


	8. I Can't Want It

"Ladies, I now declare this emergency slumber party of Phi Pi Kappa open! Our motto is?"

"Care Above Dominance," Quinn replied with the six other girls sprawled on the floor of Jamie's basement, and then she sighed and settled back onto her sleeping bag, staring up at the ceiling.

She'd been reluctant to rush a Greek organization, no matter how much her mother had been desperate for her to join. While Russell's goals for Quinn included a good education, a solid foundation for her future career, Judy's goals for Quinn revolved around friendship and new experiences with new people. A sorority seemed to be the perfect fit while also allowing Quinn to focus on her studies. For Quinn, it felt like she would be paying for friendship, and distracting her from her ultimate goal: finding and (re)uniting with Rachel. But it was the motto that had attracted her.

Care Above Dominance.

It was the rule by which her sisters lived their lives: the idea that above all else, even above their own nature, caring for their submissive mattered the most. There were the usual parties and going to clubs – which Quinn usually begged off, preferring to stay at home and study – but also there were seminars to attend, learning about how to develop their dominance while protecting the person in their charge. There was another sorority on campus that was more interested in asserting that dominance, and while Quinn didn't necessarily think that was wrong, she found herself far more at home with PPK.

Jamie collapsed onto the floor next to Quinn with a thump, and nudged her. "You all right, Quinn?"

Jamie had become one of Quinn's closest friends at NYU, as close to her as Sam was, if not more. Unlike Sam, Jamie was a Dominant, and also unlike Sam, Jamie was bonded and in a relationship with her submissive.

Eleanor, called Elle by her Lady, was a pretty, sweet submissive studying at NYU to eventually become a neurosurgeon. Quinn had joked with Jamie, who was on the law enforcement track, that it was so cliché, the doctor and the police officer.

"Yep," Jamie had said with a smirk. "I'm going to beat the shit out of people, and Elle will tape them up so I don't go to prison."

Jamie's bravado belied the fact that her love for Elle ran deep and strong, and theirs was a bond that Quinn envied. It had started rather unconventionally; Jamie and Elle had grown up together on the same street, and their parents had been fast friends. They'd spent every waking moment together, Jamie would recall with a fond smile, and she cherished the memory of when 8 year old Elle had proclaimed "I'm going to marry you someday!"

But then they'd found out about bonding. Jamie realized she was Dominant, and there had never really been a question that Elle was submissive. Elle would sound wistful, sad when she talked about it to Quinn, the devastation of realizing she would be meant for someone else when even as a child she felt that her heart belonged to Jamie. Her parents had tried to tell her that it would be all right, that she would find someone she would love even more than her best friend, and that she would always have Jamie no matter what. But she didn't want just that, Elle said. She didn't want a love _and_ Jamie, Jamie _was_ her love, or so she thought. But reality was warring with fantasy, it seemed, and Elle found herself unable to deal.

"She stopped talking to me," Jamie had told Quinn, the pain still evident in her voice. "We went to the same school, had classes together, and she just ignored me. And one day I couldn't take it anymore. I told her I was unhappy, that I was transferring schools. She could move on and bond with someone and be happy."

The thought of Jamie moving away had been too much for Elle. She'd thrown herself at her best friend, sobbing, feeling as if her entire world was collapsing around her.

"If I can't be yours," Elle had said, the tears running down her face, "Let me just have this."

It been urgent, frantic, aching, two girls grasping each other and pouring every emotion that had gathered in fifteen years into one, first and last kiss.

The bond, Jamie said with a beaming smile, cuddling Elle close to her, was sudden and strong, as if they had been without their hearts for years, and suddenly had them back.

She'd been to Jamie's apartment several times, and it always hurt a little, seeing the gentle, loving way that Elle and Jamie reacted, and knowing that she didn't have that – and may never. Jamie and Elle's dynamic was a little different from what Quinn expected; while they were primarily "Lady" and "pet," Elle looked younger than she really was and Quinn knew that on any given day she could go to Jamie's apartment and find Elle curled up in her lap, "baby" taking comfort in "Mommy."

It had been nice, knowing that there was a Dominant her age who had actually found their submissive, and actually _had_ them. Jamie knew Quinn well, and so when Rachel had turned her away, Jamie had been the first person to receive the call.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Liar," Jamie said without malice; the other girls murmured their agreement and she turned on her side to face her sorority sister. "Look, this emergency is for you. We could be having so much more fun studying and doing laundry, but instead we're here having pizza and drinks." Jamie sighed dramatically and Quinn rolled her eyes. "At least show your gratitude by being honest."

"What do you want me to say?" Quinn asked softly, and Jamie laid her hand on the girl's arm. "I found her. I found my girl. Only she's not mine and she's trying to make it clear that she doesn't want to be."

"'Trying,'" Jamie repeated. "So obviously she failed at making that clear."

Quinn nodded. "There's something there, Jamie." She glanced around at the other girls, all of them giving her various expressions of sympathy and regret. They all knew her story, revealed during one of the "Get to Know You" sessions during rush week. The hugs and care Quinn had received for a week afterward had cemented her decision to join if asked.

"I know it's there. I can't… feel it. I haven't been able to feel anything from her but it's there. She wants me, but something's holding her back."

"So find out what."

"And how do I do that, spray her with the mace you gave us?" Quinn joked. Jamie took her studies in law enforcement seriously – and her role as president of the sorority – and made it a point to give all new members mace and self-defense lessons. Quinn had laughed at first, but you could never be too vigilant, especially when you walked home from classes at night.

"No," Jamie snorted, with a not-too-soft punch to Quinn's shoulder. "You go to her again. Talk to her. Find out what's holding her back. If you can fix it, you fix it. If you can't… you move on."

_Move on._

As Quinn took her seat in the diner, with a wave at Burt, she knew Jamie didn't believe what she was saying, and Quinn didn't think there was any way that she could move on. But when Rachel came out from the kitchen and threw a dirty look in her direction, for a moment Quinn wished she could.

Still, she couldn't take her eyes off the small girl wearing the hideous pink uniform.

It was clear that Rachel was the only waitress in the place, or the only waitress for that shift. It was also clear that she wasn't really made for the job. She looked tired, Quinn noted, with dark circles under her eyes, and she didn't move as quickly as someone in the middle of the lunch rush ought to. And yet… the way she moved…

There was a grace to it, a power in her that it didn't seem like she should have. She was short, and tiny, but she moved from table to table, order to order, as if the diner floor was her stage and she felt in complete command of her role. It didn't, however, appear as if Quinn was meant to appear in the play, because move as she might from table to table, Rachel specifically avoided hers. Even when everyone else had cleared out and Quinn was the only customer left, Rachel stalked off to a booth in the far corner of the diner, and sat down, making a point not to even look at her again.

Quinn sighed, and lifted her hand. "Excuse me?" she called. "I'm ready to order."

She wasn't hungry. She wasn't even thirsty but if ordering food was the only way to talk to Rachel…

Her lips tightened in disapproval when Rachel sighed a very audible "Ugh," but still the girl walked over to her, only to whip out her order booklet and wait with her pen poised, still not saying a word.

Quinn shook her head. "I'd like a water," she said quietly. "A water, a cheeseburger with no ketchup." She paused. "And for you to talk to me."

"I'll be right back with your order."

She tried to distract herself from the tightness in her chest by pulling out her sketchbook. Quinn had been working on the same picture for the last week: a drawing of Rachel, center-stage, with an adoring audience standing and throwing flowers. One flower, a gardenia, had a green ribbon tied around it, the other end held in the hand of a girl in the front row.

She wasn't even sure if Rachel liked gardenias.

"Here's your order, miss."

Quinn's head shot up just in time for her to see Rachel's eyes widen.

"I-I call all of my customers sir or miss," she hastened to explain, placing down the plate of food and looking awkwardly about the diner.

"Of course you do," Quinn said, smiling slowly. She gestured toward the seat across from her, trying to ignore the little flutter that had replaced the tightness the second she'd heard that word.

_Miss._

"Have a seat?"

"I have things to do."

"You have no customers except me," Quinn pointed out. "And you look tired; Burt can manage if you take a little break. Have a seat."

"Burt can't manage anything without me," Rachel muttered, sounding affectionate as she sat. "And I'm not tired, I'm perfectly fine."

"I believe you," Quinn said, even though she didn't, taking a bite of her burger. Really she was going to gain fifty pounds if she kept coming to the diner; Burt's food was just that good. But it would be worth it, she thought. Great food, and Rachel.

"Pass me the salt, please. When did you start working here?"

"It's not really any of your business," Rachel said, sliding the salt across the table to Quinn. "But last year."

She grew quiet then, and Quinn glanced up from sprinkling far too much salt on her fries to see what had captured Rachel's attention. Quinn had pushed her sketchbook off to the side so that she could eat, but had left it open to the drawing of Rachel, and now the girl's eyes were trained on the image of herself on stage.

"Put the salt back," Quinn said. "What do you think?"

Rachel shrugged as she tucked the salt shaker back into the metal holder. "I didn't know you drew."

Quinn raised an eyebrow at Rachel. "Yes, you do, Rachel," she said firmly. "I've always drawn."

"You need better subjects then."

"No, I don't," Quinn said, feeling the frustration rise. "I'm drawing you, where you belong."

"I don't belong on stage."

"Well, not all the time," Quinn said. "You forgot to bring me a napkin. You also belong with me."

Rachel tore a napkin from its holder on the next table over and handed it to Quinn. "I belong here, at the diner. And at home."

"I don't think you believe that."

"I don't think you know what I believe at all."

"I used to, until you shut me out."

Her eyes went back to the drawing, and Quinn wasn't sure what the feeling was that came over her heart as Rachel's hand reached out and traced the line of the ribbon in the picture, from the flower to the hand at the other end.

"What happened, Rach?" Quinn asked gently. She caught the wince and now her heart ached, but she pressed on. "What happened that you thought you had to leave?"

"I didn't think I had to, I wanted to."

"You were just as sad that day as I was; I know you didn't want to."

"You don't know what I wanted," Rachel said, shoving the sketchbook away so that it nearly dropped off the table on the other side.

Quinn caught it and sat it back up, unable to keep herself from glaring a little. This wasn't going well, she knew. She had to fix it, to change the course, somehow, but… how? She'd thought Rachel wanted to be found, she'd thought Rachel would run into her arms and they'd go back to her apartment…

"I have an apartment," Quinn said, so suddenly that Rachel jumped a little. "I have an apartment across town a-and I got into NYU." She found herself rambling much like she did into the silence late at night, when she hoped that Rachel would be able to hear. Now that she knew Rachel hadn't heard, suddenly it felt urgent that Quinn tell her everything that she had said, everything she had wanted to say, since that day years ago.

"I study history, I – do you remember, I always loved history."

"… I remember."

Emboldened by Rachel's quiet admission, Quinn went on. "I'm part of a sorority too, we have a lot of fun and – oh! You have to meet Jamie and Eleanor, Elle; I think you'd love both of them. And Sam, too, Sam! You'll meet him whenever you come over to the apartment, but first we – "

"I'm not coming to your apartment."

Quinn trailed off, not wanting to believe what she had heard. "What?"

The diner suddenly felt cold, too cold even with the jeans and fleece pullover that she wore; she was tempted to pull on her wool coat, such was the chill that ran through her at Rachel's words when she repeated them.

"I'm not coming to your apartment."

"But… I want you to meet Van," Quinn said miserably. "My cat," she explained, "Van Gogh Fabray. He's… got part of his ear missing and he's cranky some – _all_ the time, but I love him and I know he'd love you."

"You want me to come to your apartment," Rachel said slowly, "to meet your cat."

"Yes!" Quinn said, a little excitement creeping into your voice. "But no, not just that. I want you to meet Van and Sam, Jamie and Elle and I want you to see my apartment. It's kind of small but it works for me, and once you move in we could maybe start looking for a bigger pla – "

"You want me to move in with you?!"

She caught the note of panic and Quinn stopped, biting her lower lip as she looked up at Rachel, who had gotten to her feet and stood staring at Quinn as if she'd grown three heads.

"I… you belong with me," Quinn insisted. "You know you do, Rachel. You remember everything; you can't tell me that you don't."

Rachel didn't answer, preferring to cross her arms over her chest and stare out the window at passersby.

"Rachel," Quinn said firmly. "Tell me you don't remember. Tell me you don't remember the time we spent, being as together as we could be. Tell me you don't remember when I got sick and you stayed up all night. When you made a cake for me and then described every flavor, every sensation you were having to me as _you_ ate it. Tell me you don't remember that first time when you scared me half to death. Tell me you don't remember _everything._ Do that and I'll leave you alone. For good."

_It well may be that we will never meet again…_

They'd loved each other, hadn't they? Quinn thought. Elphaba and Glinda had cared about each other, and Elphaba had "sacrificed" herself, partly for Glinda, hadn't she? She wasn't sure she quite remembered the story; it had been too long.

"I can't," Rachel said, but the confession was so heartbreaking that Quinn felt none of the pride she had expected; instead she felt the intense need to gather Rachel up in her arms and tuck the girl on her lap, a little like Jamie would do when she knew Elle was having a "little" day.

"I can't say I don't remember it because you know I do, what would be the point in denying it? There is no point, just as there is no point in you being here, Quinn, because nothing has changed. Nothing will change."

"It can change," Quinn said, not willing to give up so easily.

"It can't," Rachel said, and Quinn almost smiled, remembering how stubborn the girl could be. She really was as stubborn as ever.

"What did you think, Quinn, that you would waltz in here and things would change back to the way they were back then? That we would pick up as if nothing had ever happened and that I would… I don't know, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to be with me," Quinn said. "Because you're meant to be. You know that's how this works."

"Says every stalker ever," Rachel said with a snort.

Quinn sighed. She'd made a complete mess of things, so now she tried a different tactic. Pushing her empty plate off to the side, she brought the picture back over and smiled down at it.

"I don't think I did justice to how beautiful you'll look onstage."

"I won't ever be onstage."

"Ever?" Quinn countered.

"Ever."

"So you don't like Broadway anymore?" Rachel didn't answer. "I-I heard you talking to Burt last time, you still like Broadway. You went to Wicked… I did too, when I first moved here."

Rachel glanced around the diner again, hesitating before sitting back down across from Quinn. Her hand reached out to toy with the edge of the picture.

"You went to see Wicked?"

"Not just Wicked," Quinn confirmed. "I saw Wicked, Rent, Chicago, Mamma Mia; I saw as many musicals I could cram into a week, every week for… a while."

"Why?"

"Because… I missed you." Quinn sighed and looked out the window, wondering why this was what Rachel wanted to see every day. The same people, passing by the same window, on their way to… what? Life. Jobs. Family. She wondered if Rachel envied them, if she ever wanted to break free of the little grubby diner on the bad edge of town.

"I missed you and it was the only way I could be close to you. But I stopped going."

"Why?" Rachel asked again.

"It hurt too much. It hurt too much knowing that I should be sat out in the audience watching you on the stage."

"You should go back. The more you go the easier it will be to accept."

"I'm not going to accept it!" Quinn snapped, slamming her palm down on the table. Rachel jumped and Quinn flexed her fingers, struggling to regain control.

"I'm not going to accept it," she said again, more gently this time. She reached out to grasp Rachel's hand, trying to ignore the pain when Rachel pulled away, clenching her hands together on her lap.

"I can't accept… this," Quinn said, gesturing. She told herself that she should hold back, that what she wanted to say would only hurt Rachel, but it had been so long, so many years that she had talked without ever hearing anything in response. She was powerless to keep from saying how she really felt.

"I can't accept seeing you working here."

"It's a good job."

"It's a _diner_. You're a _waitress._ And yes, you're right, it's a good job and there's nothing wrong with it, except that it's wrong for _you_. You don't belong here, Rachel." Quinn took a deep breath, struggling not to cry.

"And where do I belong?" Rachel wouldn't look at her.

"With me," Quinn insisted. "Because it's destiny, Rachel, this is how it works. You should be with me, in my home, in my heart, in my _bed_." She thought she detected a slight flush rise up in Rachel at the words, but Quinn pressed on.

"Or, you don't even have to be with me, but you should be on stage, making thousands of people fall in love with you because of your voice. You should be in Wicked, or originating a role, you should be in the movies. You should be _there_, instead of being so unhappy working in a shitty diner serving up food to people who'd just as soon grope you than applaud you!"

"Get out."

Quinn stared at Rachel, who still wasn't looking at her, but was studying patterns on the table as if she could see her future in them. "W-what?"

"Get out," Rachel said again. "Get out, and don't come back here, or I will call the police."

"Rachel, baby…"

"No!" Rachel's voice rose as she stood up, and she glanced around to make sure no one heard, and then she leaned down, both hands on the table.

"No. I am not your baby, and I want you to leave."

"I'm not going to," Quinn said, but felt her resolve falter as she saw the anger in Rachel's eyes.

Anger, and something else.

Pain.

"You are. And you're going to f-forget this silly dream about us being together."

"You can have it, Rachel," Quinn pleaded. "I don't know what it is you're fighting but you can have us. And Broadway. Whatever you want."

"I don't want it!" Rachel said, and then shook her head. "I can't, Quinn. I can't want it."

"Why not?"

Rachel took a deep breath, and Quinn's heart broke as the tears began to rush down her face.

"I can't want it. Those are… the dreams of a child. Silly romantic notions of fame and love that are never going to happen."

Quinn's head tilted in confusion. "Who told you that?" she asked slowly. "I never said that your dreams were silly. I'd never."

"I know _you_ wouldn't," Rachel began, and then caught herself. "I told them to myself. Because it's true. Broadway is a silly dream, and love is even sillier. Childish games that I no longer have the luxury to indulge in. There is nothing I have to offer Broadway, or… anyone. So it's time for you to go."

"Rachel, who _told_ you that? Who told you that you have nothing to offer?" Quinn asked, exasperated.

"I want you to _leave_," Rachel reiterated, and backed up, pointing to the door.

"If you care for me the way you think you do, then you'll do what I w-want… and go."

Quinn paused, wanting with every part of her to stay, to make Rachel see what she did. But she found herself standing up in spite of it, and gathering her sketchbook with shaking hands. Clutching it to her chest, she looked at Rachel.

"Rachel, please…"

But Rachel pursed her lips and looked away.

Quinn nodded, and moved to the door. Once again she paused, and looked back.

"I love you," she said tearfully. "I love you, and everything you are. You say you have nothing to offer, but all I want… is _you_, Rachel. I just want you."

"And I can't even give you that," Quinn heard Rachel say as she walked away from the diner.


	9. I Love You

She is 15 years old when it happens.

She is sitting in her room, meant to be doing her homework, but instead she is doodling Quinn loves Rachel all in the margins, complete with stars and hearts. She hasn't spoken much to Rachel today, but she knows Rachel is still there. She seemed agitated earlier, so Quinn pushed the little bit of worry to the furthest part of her mind, and tried to reach out in comfort to the one that needed her, thinking that of course everything would fine. It's just an ordinary day and Rachel will slip back to her quietly as she always does, making herself at home in Quinn's psyche, and her heart. As she's done every day for the past 8 years.

She should have known better.

The pain is instant, so fast and hard that Quinn drops her pen onto the floor and rocks forward on her bed, clutching her stomach. She's never felt anything like it. She can't describe it, and as her hands scrabble for purchase on where the pain has originated, she realizes she can't find it. It is in her stomach, in her head, in her heart, in her very _skin_. It's as if something inside her is being stretched, slowly, hesitantly, until at the very end…

"Rachel, no," Quinn wheezes. "Rachel, Rachel, don't, baby, don't."

_I'm sorry._

"Rachel. No, talk to me, please, baby…"

_I have to._

Her mother is there, then, and her father, both of them picking Quinn up and carrying her to the living room. They put her on the couch, gentle hands holding her, trying to straighten out her legs and her muscles but she curls herself deeper into a ball, desperately searching to hold on.

"Rachel, it's going to be okay, whatever I did I'll fix it, please don't, little one, I promise you I'll fix it!"

_I love you… goodbye._

A snap. Quinn will later say it reminds her of a rubber band breaking. The snip of scissors. Cutting through a ribbon. Two pieces falling, falling to the ground and landing apart.

Quinn screams. Over and over until her voice gave out.

And all around her, on that dark Lima night…

There is silence.

Rachel is gone.


	10. Goodbye

"You did what?"

Jamie accepted the drink from Elle and smiled when she handed one to Quinn, then came back and knelt at Jamie's feet.

"I told you to talk to her, not act like a damn stalker."

"I'm not a stalker," Quinn muttered, taking a sip of the drink and feeling it burn her throat. She didn't drink often, but after a day like today she wanted something to dull her senses.

"I didn't say you are one, I said you acted like one."

"You told me to fix things," Quinn insisted, tucking her legs underneath her and trying to curl into a smaller, less humiliated ball on the easy chair in Jamie's living room.

Jamie's apartment was decorated like most other college apartments: sparsely, with borrowed furniture and dirty dishes in the sink. But what it lacked in amenities it made up for in personality. Pictures of Jamie and Elle littered the walls: Jamie's graduation; Elle's first dance recital at age seven. Jamie and Elle's vacation in Europe. Elle on her knees, staring adoringly up at Jamie. And her favorite, Quinn thought: Jamie sat in the very chair Quinn herself was in now, with a sleeping Elle tucked under her chin, a blissful smile on her face. It was clear through all of the pictures that while there might not be a lot of furniture in the apartment, there was more than enough love and devotion.

"I told you to fix things. I didn't tell you to go to the diner and insist that Rachel was yours, that she had to be with you. I definitely didn't expect you to try to get her to move in with you."

Quinn sighed and hung her head. "I didn't try to get her to move in," she pointed out miserably. "She could've started out with a visit."

"She barely knows you," Elle pointed out, her chin resting on Jamie's knee. Jamie nodded her agreement, running her fingers through her girl's hair.

"She's known me since we were seven!"

"No," Elle said, and then hesitated. Elle's nature as submissive was such that she enjoyed having many decisions made for her, to the point that she often asked or deferred to Jamie for permission to speak, even though one of the things Jamie had fallen in love with was Elle's mind, and she wanted to hear Elle's opinions as much as possible. Jamie nodded again, and Elle continued.

"She was bonded to you for eight years. She knew your thoughts, knew your emotions, but she'd never even met you in person, Quinn. And then she breaks off the connection, for whatever reason, we don't know. So for four, almost five years, she's been cut off from you."

Jamie was beaming with pride, looking alternately from Elle to Quinn as if she was witnessing the most intelligent woman in the world give the dumbest a lecture.

Maybe that's exactly what she was doing, Quinn thought.

"For almost five years, let's assume that Rachel hasn't even thought of you, somehow. So one day she's late for work, she looks over, and sees you. Do you have any idea what might have been going through her mind?"

Quinn shook her head. "I thought she'd be happy to see me."

"She cut off the connection," Jamie said. "How could she possibly be happy to see you?"

"Gently, my lady," Elle said, catching Quinn's wince, and she smiled, trying to soften her next words. "But she's right, Quinn. Rachel cut off the connection. She doesn't _want_ to see you. I know you didn't think of that, and you don't want to think of that, but it's true. Rachel doesn't want you."

"Yes, she does," Quinn said with an exasperated sigh. "I know she does."

"So you think your omniscience gives you the right to make her decisions for her?"

"Omni-what?"

"All-knowing, my lady."

"Oh, right."

Elle smiled lovingly at Jamie and looked to Quinn for her answer.

Quinn shrugged. "I wasn't trying to make her decisions for her."

"But you were," Jamie said. "You show up out of the blue after five years. Rachel doesn't run into your arms; she tells you she hasn't thought of you, she's happy where she is."

"She's lying."

"Not the point. Rachel hasn't seen you for five years, and you start talking to her as if you're claiming her tomorrow. Telling her to leave the diner, to come visit you, that she's meant to be with you… Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?"

"It's how this works."

"Yes, if she hadn't cut off the connection. You're not operating under the bond anymore, Quinn. The game is different and so are the rules."

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"I think you do," Elle said, smiling when Jamie pulled her onto her lap and cuddled her.

It wasn't really what Quinn needed to see at that point in time, it just reiterated, to her, everything that she wanted to have and maybe never would. Rachel, in her lap, soft and heavy and warm. Held so close against her chest that Quinn would be able to feel her heart beating, smell the shampoo she used. Rachel in her life, greeting her with smiles and soft words and loving obedience.

And she wanted Rachel in her bed too, but for Quinn, every time she thought of finally finding Rachel, it wasn't about just the sex. It had been five years, she just wanted Rachel _near_.

She just wanted.

_She_ wanted.

What did Rachel want?

To work at that diner for the rest of her life? No, Quinn knew Rachel couldn't possibly want that. They'd talked about it. She knew Rachel wanted to sing. But if it was her choice…

She sighed heavily.

"I'm an idiot."

"None of this is on your terms anymore," Jamie said, and Elle nodded. "Rachel took the bond away. I don't know how, I don't know why… Elle, pet, have you ever heard of anyone doing this?"

"Very vaguely," Elle said. "It's supposed to be a horrible experience. I don't know why anyone would choose such a thing."

"I don't either," Quinn said wryly. "I'd have given her everything."

"But Rachel took what _she wanted_, and that meant cutting off the bond. And now, if you're ever going to have a chance to be with Rachel, you have to let her come to you."

"What if she doesn't? What if I know what she needs?"

"When you found out you were bonded to Rachel, what was your first instinct?"

"To protect her."

"Then do that, even if it means protecting her from _you_."

Quinn hunched forward slightly as if the words hurt her, raising a shaking hand and resting it against her forehead. Rachel needed protection… from her.

"What have I done?" she asked herself aloud. She hadn't meant to do, well, any of it. She'd only set out to find the girl she loved, to help her, to make things right. And instead, she'd made it even worse.

Rachel was probably terrified of her. She should have thought of all of it, how Rachel would feel upon seeing her. Had she been shocked, scared? Had she pushed the memory of that day long ago so far into her mind that the moment she'd seen Quinn it had all come rushing back? Had she lain awake at night thinking about Quinn, or had she gone home and given her mother the desserts, talked about her day, the weather, what was on television, everything but Quinn?

"She said she was going to call the police on me," Quinn said in a near-whisper. She looked at Jamie and Elle, with tear-filled eyes.

"I made her so scared of me that she was going to call the police. And I love her more than anything."

"You just need to think," Jamie said sympathetically. "I can't imagine being without Elle, not now, but I can't imagine making her afraid of me either."

She thought about it for the rest of the night. And every night for a week, as she couldn't sleep. Thought about it as she tossed and turned, trying to sleep but instead causing Van to hiss at her more than once. But then he crawled up next to her, batting lightly at her face as she clutched her pillow and sobbed into it with realization.

She thought about it as she finally dragged herself out of bed on a Thursday morning and packed up the little box, and thought about it some more as she got dressed and began the walk to the diner.

If looks could kill, Quinn would have died as soon as she entered the diner.

There were dark circles under her eyes, and Rachel's hair was falling out of her ponytail; it had clearly been a busy morning already. But the restaurant was empty again save for Quinn and Rachel, who now stomped over to Quinn with an expression of complete and utter fury.

"I thought I told you to leave and never come back."

"I know," Quinn said softly, the hands holding the box trembling. "There was just something I wanted to say."

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say," Rachel muttered, and pulled out her phone.

"Please don't." Her voice cracked and a tear fell.

Rachel glanced at her, and Quinn could swear that for a split second she saw the angry veneer disappear before it slid fully back into place again.

"Who do you think you are?" Rachel said. She took a step toward Quinn. She smelled of grease and sweat and a light, flowery perfume; Quinn breathed in, wanting to capture the memory.

"Rachel, I—"

"No," Rachel snapped. "For once you're going to listen to _me_."

"Okay…"

"Who do you think you are?" Rachel asked again. "Did you think when you came back that I would just jump into your arms, that you would carry me off to your apartment and we'd live happily ever after like some silly childhood fairytale?"

Well, yes, she had thought that, but Quinn stayed quiet. She held the box closer to her chest, the trembling now starting to grow over her entire body.

"I am eighteen years old, Quinn Fabray. I am eighteen years old and beyond that, we are not connected together any more. I did that. I severed the connection. It was my choice, and _this_ is my choice."

Unlike the first time Quinn had spoken to her in the diner, Rachel's voice was no longer uneven and shaky. Instead it was strong, loud, assertive, and if the circumstances had been different, she might have found it hot. But now, it was merely unnerving, and sad.

"You ask me if I want to stay in the diner for the rest of my life. What if the answer is yes? What if the answer is no? Regardless of what the answer is, it is _my_ answer, Quinn. My life is just that – mine. It is not a decision for you to make."

It was so like Rachel's old rambling, Quinn thought, and if her heart wasn't breaking she might have been induced to smile. Rachel's train of thought had always run on its own track, wild and free, and Quinn supposed that even now it was no different, even if the words weren't anything that she wanted to hear.

"I'm not a little girl anymore, Quinn. I'm a strong, independent woman, and I won't have you waltzing in here every day thinking that you can suddenly sway me into running away with you, and kneeling for you. Because it isn't going to happen."

"Okay," Quinn said again, unsure of what she was meant to say after that. But it was clear that she hadn't really been meant to say anything, because Rachel pursed her lips and rolled her eyes before continuing.

"You scared me," Rachel said, and Quinn's heart dropped because for a moment, Rachel's voice lost its bravado and became small, uncertain. "I don't know you, Quinn. You came here and you could've done anything to me. I don't know what you've done, where you've been. I don't _trust_ you."

It was true. Of course it was true. Rachel had had no clue where Quinn was born and raised, that had been a condition of their bond. And after she'd broken the bond, she'd had no clue of what Quinn was doing. Maybe she hadn't ever even thought of Quinn coming to find her. It was impossible for Quinn to imagine that Rachel wouldn't have known she'd come looking for her, but maybe, again, Rachel had pushed her so far out of her mind that she really had nearly forgotten.

"And I'm sure you think it's romantic," she said, stronger now. "I'm sure you think it's romantic and passionate, that you think this is some kind of Broadway show where the couple has been apart for years but they still love each other, that pain has always been there. They run across each other in an old, beaten down diner, they stare at each other longingly across a room and sing an emotional song of hope and redemption to each other. The curtain drops, it's intermission; will they or won't they?"

For the second time that day, Quinn had the urge to smile. Maybe she hadn't forgotten, after all.

"But do you know how this musical really plays out?"

There was a pause, and it took another moment before Quinn realized that Rachel was, essentially, giving her the right to speak.

"How?" she asked dumbly.

"The curtain never comes back up. One of the actresses has quit. For whatever reason, she's decided that the role isn't for her, that no matter what obligation she has to her costar, the production company, the story, it isn't for her. So she's quit, and she's left. Becomes a waitress across town. Where she's _happy_, where she's healthy, where she's safe."

"Not really fair to the costar," Quinn muttered, and she briefly hated the sympathetic look Rachel gave her.

"It's not the costar's decision. It's the actress's. She doesn't want the role, so she's quit. It's up to the costar what she wants to do from that point on. She can stay on the stage, waiting for the actress to come back, or she can go off and find another role, or another costar. Someone better, someone more deserving of her."

"You don't want me to do that," Quinn tried.

Rachel shook her head.

"What you want isn't the same as what I want, Quinn."

She hated the way the assertiveness had once again dropped away from Rachel, now replaced with a painful tenderness. As if Rachel was speaking to a small, delicate child instead of a grown woman. Quinn felt angry, but she also knew even that wasn't her right.

"What… what do you want?"

Rachel studied her. "I want to be happy. I want to be happy and healthy. That's all I need."

No, she wanted to scream. That isn't all you need. You need love and care and happiness and Broadway, everything you dreamed of when you were 7 years old.

"And I need you to leave."

She knew it was coming, knew that Rachel wouldn't say anything else, but it was still a knife through her gut and Quinn took a step back, struggling to maintain her control in the face of it.

"Can I say something first?"

"Quinn—"

"Please?" she begged, and then held out the box. "I-I brought this for you. I promise you that it doesn't have a bomb or anything that's going to hurt you, I don't even know how to make anything like that."

Rachel quirked an eyebrow, and Quinn felt like kicking herself. Why did she always take a turn for the awkward when it came to Rachel?

"Please," she whispered.

Rachel hesitated, and then took the box. Her eyes still on Quinn, she opened it slowly before looking inside.

There had been 8 years' worth of presents in Quinn's apartment. Birthdays, Easter, Valentine's, Hanukkah, Christmas. But she'd chosen this one carefully.

Rachel's hand shook as she lifted out the gift.

"_It's a crown. It's silver, and it's shiny, and there's a little gold star at the very top. 'cause you're my gold star."_

"I came here to say goodbye," Quinn said, the tears beginning to fall again. Rachel's eyes flicked to her, and then back to the crown. The box had fallen onto the diner floor; Quinn didn't bother to bend down and pick it up.

"You're my princess. You're my Princess Rachel, and you always will be. I don't want another role, I don't want another costar."

Rachel glared at her, and Quinn rushed to explain.

"I love you, Rachel Berry. I've loved you ever since you scared me when I was seven years old. Since I was seven years old I've loved the way you used to ramble, the way you used to care for me, the way we used to talk together. The way I used to know that you were there, that anytime I needed you all I'd have to do was think and you'd be right there."

Quinn smiled faintly. "And since I was seven years old I've wanted nothing more than to be with you. But… you don't want me. And that… that's your decision to make, I can't change your mind and I shouldn't try."

"Quinn—"

"I am so sorry," Quinn sniffled. "I'm so sorry that I came here, that I talked to you like you didn't have a mind of your own. I'm so sorry that I scared you, Rachel; you have to believe me that I didn't mean to. I was just thinking about myself, about what I wanted. And not what you want, what you need. I am _so sorry_."

She swiped at her eyes, taking in yet another deep, shuddering breath before she continued.

"And you're right, you don't know anything about me, and I don't know anything about you. I want to know everything. I want to know who you are; I want to know what you've done since we've been apart. I want to know what makes you smile, what makes you laugh. What makes you cry so I can go beat up who or whatever it is. I want to know what movies you can quote, what TV shows you refuse to watch, which political party you belong to."

There was so much to Rachel that she didn't know. Quinn had thought of it all during that week. Rachel's favorite foods, her favorite songs. What made her angry, whether she liked dirty jokes or puns. If she swore, if she liked to party or if she just liked to stay at home. What books did she read? Did she read? What was Shelby like? Did she get mad at Rachel for singing? Why couldn't Rachel go to Broadway shows?

And most of all, she still wanted to know why Rachel left. But that answer would never be hers, now.

Rachel's fingers were running over the crown, almost lovingly touching the gold star. Her mouth was open to a small, silent "o," and she was watching Quinn now as if her life depended on it.

"I love you… but you don't want me. I love you, so I came here to say goodbye."

The tears were falling fast and hard now, and Quinn was desperate to get the words out before she collapsed into a blubbering heap on the floor. She was thankful that she and Rachel were still the only ones in the diner; she didn't think she could do this with anyone else listening.

"You deserve to be happy, and healthy, and safe. I-I know what else I think you should have, but you're right, that's your decision. You deserve to be happy, and to smile, and to be that bright shining star that you always have been. You deserve to be loved, and you deserve to be cherished. And I—god, Rachel, I want more than anything to be the one to give you that. But you… whether I'm the one to give it to you or not, you still deserve everything beautiful and bright, no matter if you're singing on Broadway or a waitress in the diner."

In the back of her mind she could still see it. Rachel on stage, a spotlight shining down on her. If she closed her eyes – and she didn't want to, because this would be the last time she ever saw Rachel and she didn't want to forget it, even if her last memory of Rachel would be of her in a dirty waitress uniform – she could hear Rachel's voice, rich and soaring over the crowd. She could see the gardenia, resting on the wood in the midst of a sea of roses, the green ribbon tied around its stem.

What she couldn't see, didn't know if she'd ever be able to see again, was herself holding the other end of the ribbon.

It made her sick to think of someone else having Rachel; she remembered Jamie talking about how awful it was, trying to convince herself that even if Elle didn't have her, it'd be all right if she found someone else to make her happy. She wanted Rachel to be happy, and she knew it was selfish to want Rachel to be happy with _her_.

Quinn shrugged. "I love you, Rachel," she said brokenly. "And you can't blame me for that. I love you, and I hope you'll be happy, for the rest of your life. I just came… to give you that, and to say goodbye." She shrugged again and tried to offer a reassuring smile.

Maybe it would get easier. She'd get up and go to class every day, as usual. Throw herself into her homework. She already got straight As, but a little extra studying never hurt anyone. Maybe a part-time job would help, give her something to do. She could be a teacher's assistant, Quinn thought; the history department was always looking for students to assist with classes and grading papers. So that's what she could do. She'd be absolutely determined to focus all of her time, energy and thoughts onto school and work. She'd go out with the girls of Phi Pi, and maybe live a little vicariously through Jamie and Elle.

And hopefully, maybe, eventually… Quinn Fabray would stop thinking about Rachel Berry. She'd become a distant memory, or, if she was really lucky, maybe Quinn could forget about Rachel altogether.

She hoped.

She doubted it.

Rachel was still staring at her, the crown now clutched tightly in her hands, resting against her chest.

"G-goodbye, Rach—"

"What are you doing here?"

Quinn jumped at the harsh tone in Burt's voice. "I-I was just—"

"She doesn't want you here, don't you get that?"

Ah, so Rachel had told him. Well, she seemed to get along with him, maybe she'd asked him for advice.

Advice on how to stay away from her.

"I'm just leav—"

"You're darn right you're leaving, and you're not to come back here again," he said. "I'm not going to have my employee harassed by some crackpot little—"

"Burt, she can—"

"I'm not a crackpot!"

"Crackpot little brat who doesn't know when to call it quits!"

"Burt—"

"Now I want you out of here." He reached for Quinn's arm, and she wrested out of his grasp.

"Stop that!"

"You're stalking Rachel and you're telling me to stop that? Get out of here, kid, and don't come—"

"Burt! She can stay!"

Burt stared at Rachel; Quinn froze.

"What?" he said.

"What?" she said.

Rachel turned the crown over in her hands, her finger once again trailing along the outline of the gold star.

She looked at Quinn, the merest hope of a tiny smile on her lips.

"She can stay."


	11. Sunday Kind of Love

"_She can stay."_

Quinn had once thought that Rachel severing their connection had been the hardest thing she had ever faced in her life.

But it was nothing compared to Quinn walking away from Rachel, after she had told Burt at the diner that Quinn could stay.

"But I don't understand," Rachel had said.

She knew she didn't understand, Quinn had told her. But Quinn was upset, she was sniffling like a little kid, borderline hysterical. And even though she hoped Rachel wanted her to stay because, well, she wanted her to stay, part of Quinn thought that Rachel wanted her to stay just so that Quinn would calm down and stop crying.

"Because that's just what you used to do," Quinn had said to her, softly. "When we were younger, and I was upset or sad, you would do anything to make me happy again. So I can't be sure that that's not what you're doing now."

And she'd changed her mind so quickly, Quinn pointed out to Rachel, as gently as she could. Just a week ago, just a _few minutes_ ago, Rachel was saying that she wanted Quinn to leave, and never to come back. But in the blink of an eye she had told Quinn she could stay. As much as she wanted to, Quinn said, she couldn't stay. Not until she knew Rachel really wanted her, that Rachel was truly ready for her.

And she knew now that she wasn't ready, Quinn said, to re-establish her bond with Rachel. If that was even what was going to happen. For all she knew, she and Rachel were now only destined to be friends. Whatever it was meant to be, she'd thought too long, and too hard, of what _she_, Quinn, wanted, and far too little of what Rachel _needed_.

"And I don't really… know what you need," Quinn had said.

"So you're just going to walk away?" Rachel said.

Quinn had smiled sadly, and nodded. "I'm just going to walk away, princess," she said. "I'm going to walk away so that we both can find out what we need."

"You'll never see me again," Rachel had said. It sounded less like a threat, and more like… a plea, but perhaps Quinn was reading into things.

"Fate bound us together once already," she had said carefully, leaving out any reminder of Rachel defying their connection.

"If we're meant to be together, it's up to fate to make that happen."

As she walked down the sidewalk, away from the diner, away from Rachel, Quinn had to pause, bracing herself against the brick of a building with the palm of her hand. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and though she felt as if she might be having a heart attack, there was only one thought.

_Have you lost your fucking mind?_

Rachel didn't believe in fate. Rachel had gone to battle with fate, and she had won. And now Quinn was hoping that fate would come back for round two? And that Rachel would throw the match? Maybe that day when Rachel had broken the connection had broken Quinn more than she had initially thought.

That first night, Rachel's face haunted her – scared, confused, angry. Quinn lay awake in her bed, petted Van Gogh, and prayed that not thinking about Rachel would get easier.

The few bright spots during the next month were Jamie and Elle, and Sam and the showcase. New York University hosted an artists' showcase every year, a chance for art and art history majors to exhibit the best of their talent, with live performances, student-produced movies, paintings, sculpture, and photography. It was considered the best opportunity to "get your foot in the door," to make yourself known, both in the academic community of NYU, and the artistic community of New York.

Since it was one of the biggest events of the year, every art student who was anyone at NYU wanted to be there, and wanted to be there as an invited guest. Students would begin their "auditions" up to a semester before, hoping they would be submitting their best work and that that best work would give them a coveted spot on the wall or the screen of the rented gallery. And for some lucky ones, it might lead to a job or a commission.

Quinn wasn't hoping for a job or a commission. Art history was her major, but her hobby was drawing anything and everything. She loved nothing more (besides reading) than curling up on her couch and sketching, or going out to a park and drawing the scenery, or a child playing soccer, a man on a bench holding hands with his wife of 50 years. When she had gotten her apartment, she hadn't bothered with purchasing many decorations. Instead, every available space was littered with pictures Quinn herself had created.

Many of them were of a girl with brown eyes and brown hair.

But now she had been forcing herself to draw nothing that would remind her of Rachel.

Her first instinct, when she'd heard of the showcase last semester, had to been to sketch a landscape, something that would capture the essence of a cold New York afternoon, a bench bathed in light, the gentle sway of the grass and leaves in the breeze.

"Everybody draws that," Sam said to her, his mouth full of food – as always.

Quinn rolled her eyes at him. "They do not."

"Listen to the stripper, Quinn," he said with a grin. "Look, landscapes. They're pretty, colorful, probably hard to paint. And you know what else?"

"What, Professor Evans?"

"They're also the paintings that you see on those starving artist commercials. You know, the ones where all you artists living on Ramen noodles get together and try to make a dollar or two. Landscapes and still lifes. You want to be different. Something that will make the judges or whatever, and the people at the showcase, sit up and notice you."

"So let me paint you."

"What?" The fork paused halfway to his mouth.

"Let me paint you," Quinn said. "I've wanted to do some portraits anyway."

Sam considered this. "Can I keep my clothes on?"

He really did squeal like a girl, Quinn thought, especially trying to dodge a carrot thrown at him.

Where Sam's portrait was done in vibrant hues of orange and yellow, with a shade of blue thrown in to represent his favorite movie, Jamie and Elle's portrait (Elle was, once again, sitting on Jamie's lap) was done in the richness of dark red and black, complemented with delicate lavender.

"I don't know why I have to do this," Jamie complained. "Nobody at that exhibition wants to see my ugly face."

"Anyone who doesn't want to see your ugly face is crazy, my lady," Elle said with a grin.

Jamie quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if I should spank you or kiss you."

"Well, that's easy. Do both."

"Ugh, get a room, you two," Quinn said, but she was laughing.

Her next portrait required leaving New York City for a long weekend that began with a 2 hour flight, and then a 2 hour drive from the airport. Quinn stared up at the stone building with its red roof, and smiled.

Home.

Home had always been her refuge, her peace of mind. Home had been her escape from the pressures of school, of being captain of the Cheerios, of friends who were more interested in moving up the social ladder than they were of being her friends.

Home had been where she had first "met" Rachel Berry.

And home had been where she'd tried to understand, when Rachel had severed the connection.

Home had Mom and Dad, but it was Grandma who answered the door and pulled Quinn into the house for a hug.

"Let me look at you," Connie said with a smile. "My big city girl."

Quinn hugged her grandmother again. "Not too big city," she said with a grin, dropping her duffel bag in the foyer and following her into the living room.

"Maybe, since I don't know what big city would want a painting of your old grandma."

Quinn rolled her eyes. Connie Martin looked as if she was Judy Fabray's sister, rather than her mother, and she'd never been resigned to sitting around knitting sweaters. Growing up, Grandma Connie had always been known as the "fun grandma," a welcome respite from the prim and proper Grandfather and Grandmother Fabray. Some of Quinn's most favorite memories had been going shopping with Connie, driving around in her convertible and going with her to karaoke parties. Theirs was a singing family. None of them were particularly _good_; they wouldn't be winning any Tonys or Grammys anytime soon. But that didn't matter. What mattered was Connie and Quinn riding with the top down on a summer afternoon, singing along to the radio at the top of their lungs.

"Maybe I want to hang it in my apartment," Quinn said, settling down on the couch next to Connie. "Or maybe I'm going to paint you, it'll launch me into artistic stardom and in twenty years you'll be hanging up in a museum."

"Or maybe you've gone insane at that school of yours," Connie chuckled, pouring herself a drink from the carafe that sat on the coffee table in front of them. "But if it makes you happy then the least I can do is sit for a picture." She smiled at Quinn over her glass. "You know I still have a box full of your little drawings."

"I know," Quinn said, then nestled herself into her grandmother's side. She missed this; as much as she loved NYU she missed home and family. They weren't as close as they could be, and Quinn had a little anger towards her parents for the way they'd reacted when she was fifteen years old, but, like Dorothy had said, there was no place like home. There was no other place that she could get the love and care that she craved.

"So tell me everything about school, about your friends, about that demented cat of yours."

Quinn giggled and let everything spill; she hadn't seen Connie in nearly six months and so they had a lot to catch up on. She told her about her apartment and her classes, about Jamie and Sam and Elle. She talked animatedly about the professors she enjoyed, and the one professor that she'd be grateful to never have to take again. Connie had been to New York and so Quinn supposed she already knew about Artist's Gate, the Life Café, and all of the other tourist traps; but she told her anyway, her voice rising and falling as she told her grandmother everything new about her life in New York.

Everything, that is, except Rachel. But as she had always been able to do, Connie Martin zeroed in on the things not said.

"There's something different about you," Connie said suddenly, tilting back just a little bit to regard Quinn with serious eyes.

"What do you mean?" She glanced off to the side, suddenly nervous under her grandmother's gaze.

"That," Connie said, poking her lightly in the side. "You're avoiding something. What is it? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No," Quinn said, raising an eyebrow.

"You're not pregnant, are you? Is he a good boy, is he Jewish?"

"_We're_ not Jewish," Quinn said, shaking her head in amused exasperation.

"It sounded like something I ought to say. But come on, out with it. What's going on?"

"I'm not pregnant, and I'm not in trouble," Quinn said, picking at a loose thread on the couch before looking at her grandmother.

"I found her."

"Found…?"

"Rachel."

"My god."

"Yeah."

"Judging by the expression on your face and the fact that you're here rather than in your bedroom with her, I'd say it hasn't gone well."

Quinn made a face, thinking that the last person she'd ever want to hear say something like that was her grandmother, but she shrugged.

"I went a little crazy and stalked her at the diner where she works."

"She works at a diner? You always told me she'd be a famous singer."

"I always thought she would be," Quinn said, taking a deep breath. "But she's working at some greasy restaurant and she pretended not to even know me. Kept telling me that she wanted me to leave, wanted me to get out, but when I did leave, she begged me to stay."

"Hmm," Connie hummed softly, slipping her arm around Quinn's shoulders and pulling the girl closer to her, tucking her chin on top of Quinn's head. "It sounds as if she doesn't know what she wants." Quinn was quiet, and her grandmother lightly kissed her hair.

"It'll work out."

Quinn laughed bitterly. "You're the eternal optimist, Grandma."

"I'm not living my life thinking of the worst case scenario, Quinn Fabray," Connie chided, "And I thought I'd taught you better than that. Your grandpa and I had some rough times and we always made it through, didn't we?"

They had, Quinn had to admit. Quinn had been only eleven when her grandfather had died, but she remembered well how many times the calm and quiet Dominant had come up against the vibrant stubbornness of his wife. But it was their relationship that had really shown Quinn the kind of life she could have, the kind of love she would always want. She hadn't wanted an everyday love, Connie had told Quinn once. She'd wanted something special, something different, and Robert Martin had provided it. That love, for Connie Martin, was still strong, even years after her Master had passed. Quinn knew her grandmother still kissed his picture every night before she went to bed, that she still adhered to most of the rules that Quinn had seen posted to the back of a closet door.

"Love always wins, sweetheart," Connie said, squeezing Quinn close, and her granddaughter rolled her eyes even as she smiled.

"I told her if we were meant to be together then fate would have to do all the work again," Quinn sighed.

"Ooh. So eyes meet across a crowded room, violins start playing a romantic tune, and you two run into each other's arms? I like it!"

Quinn laughed and shook her head. "I'm not sure that's how it works."

Connie shot Quinn a knowing look as she stood up and retrieved another drink from the carafe.

"Nothing about you and Rachel has been 'how it works.'"

Quinn thought about it while she was at home, while she was painting her grandmother's portrait and trying to convince her parents to sit for one as well. She had been raised to know that her life, her relationship, was supposed to work one way: she would find the one for her, and they would live happily ever after. And yet, none of that had happened. At least not the happily ever after part.

"You'll have to up your game, fate," Quinn muttered to herself, just as she dialed Sam to check in with him. She'd asked him to watch over Van while she was gone – and was relieved when Sam was still alive enough to answer the phone.

"Hey?" he said breathlessly, and Quinn quirked an eyebrow.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Nope, nope, just trying to stop the bleeding."

"Bleeding? What?"

"I tried to pet him."

Quinn closed her eyes. "You didn't."

"Well I had fed him and while he was eating I thought—"

"Tell me you didn't try to pet him while he was eating."

"I didn't try to pet him while he was eating?"

Quinn let out a puff of air from her lips and shook her head. "You're lucky you still have a hand," she said. "I told you not to try to pet him; he barely lets _me_ do that."

"Stupid cat."

"Hey!" Quinn said indignantly. "Anyway, are you all right?"

"I'll live," Sam said, "as long as you come back soon and save me from the demon cat."

She did come back, just in time for classes to resume, and couldn't help but laugh at the three bandages that topped Sam's left hand. He'd glared at her, saying that he'd never babysit the devil again and Quinn had better not ask, unless she was willing to pay him double. She'd laughed at him again and treated him to Chinese food, gloating when Van padded over and curled up in her lap, staring at Sam reproachfully.

It felt strange, the first night in her apartment after having been at home for a few days. Home had meant security and peace, the chance to almost be little girl Quinn again, spoiled by her parents and grandmother, and protected from the evils and harshness of the world outside. Inside the big house at the end of the long driveway on Allen Street, Quinn could forget. Forget about tests and finals, the pressures of the showcase, the need to find a good job after college and prove to everyone that she had made the right decision to go to New York. Quinn could wrap herself up in the love of her family and forget.

Forget about Rachel.

But she was again confronted by the brown haired, brown eyed beauty the minute she unlocked the door to her apartment, because of the pictures on the walls. Drawings, painstaking and – for the most part – strikingly accurate. Quinn had stood in the center of her floor, staring at all of them, before finally, one by one, taking them down. She didn't have room in the closet and nowhere else to really store them, so she simply tucked them under her bed. Van sat atop the pillows, watching her intently.

"Leave them alone," she warned, wiping her eyes and smiling a little. "I'll kick you out on your poor little ear if even one of them goes missing or shows up torn to pieces."

She liked to think that Van understood, because he licked her hand when she sat on the bed with a sigh and looked back at the now-bare walls.

"Your move, fate," Quinn said aloud into the emptiness.

"Your move, Rach," she whispered.

She wasn't surprised when neither answered.

Quinn returned to her classes with a new resolve, a new determination buoyed by the portraits that were now waiting to be entered into the showcase. She carried them to the art department on a Thursday, placing them down onto the desk under the watchful eye of the student aide, who glanced at the paintings then back at Quinn before gesturing to the paperwork she needed to fill out.

She quickly filled out her name, phone number, and campus box number on the three separate forms, fighting back the urge to seize up her work and run with it back to her apartment.

Title of Submission.

She almost snorted, considering the irony of it, but held back and wrote down Sam's portrait.

"Sunset Strip?" she'd said, one eyebrow perfectly arched. "You're joking, right?"

"Totally serious," Sam had answered, wincing as he'd pulled a bandage off one of his "war wounds."

"It fits! When the sun goes down I strip. And there's orange and yellow so…"

"You're so weird."

Connie's portrait was entry two, and Quinn smiled as she wrote down its title. _A Sunday Kind of Love_. She'd come up with that on her own, and Quinn was sure it was the right choice when her grandmother had teared up after she'd told her.

Last but not least, there was Jamie and Elle's portrait. Quinn gingerly pressed her fingertips to the bruise on her upper arm before writing down the title.

Better Late Than Never.

"Well is it accurate or not?" Quinn had snapped after Jamie had punched her, and Elle had just laughed.

She breathed a sigh of relief once out of the art department, feeling the weight of the world mostly drop off her shoulders. It was out of her hands now, Quinn thought to herself. And really, maybe she was thinking of the showcase as too much of a make or break moment anyway. She was good at her classes, Quinn knew, and she'd walk out of NYU with a degree that would leave her prepared for anything she'd set her mind to. But still, it would be nice to have a confirmation that her artwork was good enough to be considered by some of the best in the industry. She walked to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner with visions in her head of being a world-famous artist. Known wherever she went, people clamoring to have her paintings or to simply be in the same room with her.

Did she want Ramen or a microwave meal, she thought, as she wandered up and down the aisles.

She could almost hear her mother behind her, admonishing Quinn that being in college was no excuse for not eating healthy, and so she shook her head and went for the fresh vegetables. A salad, she thought as she reached for a tomato. Maybe with some grilled chicken and light dressing, that would be amazing.

The store was crowded, likely with fathers and mothers, businessmen and women picking up supper on their way home just like she was doing, and Quinn found herself being jostled more than once. But that was New York; she was used to it, and simply held her basket tighter as she made her way towards the front to check out.

And then she saw her, just visible above the magazine rack as she flipped through a magazine, then suddenly lifted her head as if some unseen force had compelled her to look up at that exact moment.

And Rachel saw her.

_Your move, fate._

_Your move, Rach._

There were so many things on the tip of her tongue to say as Rachel looked at her, but Quinn found herself powerless to speak any of them.

_I didn't know you shopped here. What are you doing here? Are you all right? Do you want to go out for coffee sometime? I love you._

It was a fluke, Quinn told herself. Okay, sure, New York was a big place and there were hundreds of grocery stores. But it wasn't any big deal that Rachel just happened to be at this one when Quinn was shopping. It was just coincidence that Quinn had spotted her just before she left and that Rachel had been so engrossed in a magazine and yet… had found Quinn.

Fate's working, Quinn thought, a little thrill rushing through her, but she fought back a smile. She couldn't hope for this. Not now, not again.

It was just… coincidence. Happenstance. A nice accident that wouldn't happen again.

But what if it did…?

Quinn pushed that thought out of her mind, mostly because it hurt too much and also because Rachel's eyes were big and deep and soft as they stared at her, waiting. Rachel wanted something… but what? An answer? A hello? There was nothing, Quinn knew, no thought or emotion that could be encompassed in a simple hello, and she was terrified that if she opened her mouth to speak to Rachel everything would spill out the way it had at the diner, and Quinn wasn't sure she could afford to have that happen again. She was determined to move on with life, to not appear like she was stalking Rachel – which she was sure Rachel thought now that she and Quinn had _shown up at the same store._ Quinn could see Rachel chewing on her lower lip and shifting from foot to foot, seeming nervous, and Quinn wanted to cry because it was so adorable, so perfect. So Rachel.

But it was just… a coincidence.

Quinn offered Rachel the smallest of smiles before finally walking away from her and lining up at a register to check out.

She would swear she felt Rachel's eyes on her even as she walked in a daze towards home.


	12. West 44th Street

"I don't think I did the right thing."

Elle dodged a group of teenagers giggling something about Nationals, and turned to her left to look at Quinn. "I think you did," she said, her voice carrying easily over the crowd at Times Square. "I think you made the decision that was best for both of you."

"Yeah, but I'm not supposed to be making decisions for her," Quinn pointed out. "She told me I could stay, she made that decision, and then I made another one for her. It's like no matter what I do I'm trying to control her."

"But you're not." Elle smiled apologetically at Quinn before asking her question. "I know that you want to enjoy the auction and we will, but do you mind if we sit down for a minute? Crowds get to me sometimes, and this discussion might be better someplace quieter."

"Of course," Quinn said instantly, and moved towards a coffee shop. Once inside she smiled at Elle. "Would you like coffee or tea?"

"Tea," Elle said, "But no need, I can get it." She ordered quickly, asking the barista to wrap up a chocolate chip cookie, and placed it in her purse.

"My lady likes chocolate chip cookies," she said with a wink, and Quinn grinned.

She ordered her caramel mocha, and then sat with Elle at a table near the window, warming her hands around the hot cup. "Why do you say I'm not controlling her?" Quinn asked suddenly.

Elle paused with the drink halfway to her mouth, and then took a sip before setting it back onto the table. "Because you're trying not to, I suppose," she offered with a shrug. "You aren't setting up your relationship with Rachel to be some sort of cat and mouse game."

"But I am—"

"No, you're not," Elle interrupted, then flushed. Immediately her eyes flew to the table. "I'm sorry."

Elle, Quinn had come to know, was one of those submissives who, on the outside, might appear to someone to be meek and mild, with a mind and life not her own, instead only controlled by the person who held the key to the light lavender collar that wrapped around her neck. But, Quinn had also come to know better than that, because Elle was only meek and mild because she had chosen to be so, and Jamie supported it. Elle liked to defer to Jamie for the major decisions in their lives, knowing that Jamie would always have both their best interests at heart. Elle liked to give polite deference to other Dominants that she spoke to, and even had insisted on calling Quinn Miss for the first few months they'd known each other. She was much more comfortable and easy with Quinn now, but even so Elle would catch herself like she just had, and felt she needed to apologize for a perceived disrespect.

"Not necessary," Quinn said softly, and patted Elle's arm. "You were saying?"

"I was saying that doing what Rachel asked you to do at first – to leave her alone – isn't controlling her. I mean you told my lady and me that Rachel changed her mind in a split second. I'm fairly certain she did it for two reasons."

"And those are?" Quinn prompted.

"Because she can't stand to see you unhappy, for one. And for the other, because she has no idea what she wants. After all these years, and because she never expected you to actually look for her. She may have expected you to hate her—"

"I could never."

"But that may have been what she consoled herself with. It may have helped her cope so that the last five years didn't kill her."

Quinn drew back, a sick feeling rising in her throat. "What?"

Elle sighed, looking at Quinn with sympathetic eyes. "How did it feel when Rachel broke the connection?"

"No," Quinn said, shaking her head. "W-we're meant to be having fun, we're supposed to be walking through the Broadway auction."

She didn't know what was compelling her to go; she hadn't really been interested in the Broadway Cares flea market until the last week. She'd seen an advertisement for it on the internet as she'd lazily surfed one night with Van asleep at her feet. Maybe she wanted to go because it was Broadway and Broadway meant Rachel. Or maybe she just wanted to go because she actually _liked_ Broadway, and not just because of Rachel.

It was funny, when Quinn would pause to look at the New York around her, either on her walks to school or just a simple walk in the park or to get food. When she was younger, all she had thought about was finding Rachel in New York and bringing her back to Lima. They'd have a little house on Allen Street, maybe. Rachel could teach music at the high school, and Quinn could… well, she could be a real estate agent who did drawing and painting on the side. But it didn't matter what either of them did, they would be happy, because they would be together.

But then… Rachel had left her, and Coach Sylvester had prodded Quinn to go to New York and find her. Which she did. But now Quinn didn't have Rachel, so she'd be perfectly justified in going back to Lima, except… she didn't want to. Somewhere in the midst of searching for Rachel, New York had actually become _Quinn's_ home.

She was meant to be there.

She wasn't supposed to be reliving the past, she told Elle.

"I know," Elle said, "And I'm not really asking you to relive your past. I'm asking you to relive _hers_."

Quinn tilted her head, feeling like an idiot, and Elle sighed.

"My lady is probably going to keep me in the corner for the next twenty years when she finds out about this," she joked with a grimace, then fastened her eyes on Quinn.

"How did it feel when Rachel broke the connection?"

"Like I was dying," Quinn relented. "It hurt… more than anything I'd ever felt before. It's hard to describe."

"Like you'd never be whole again, like a part of you had been ripped out and crushed into dust, like a hand driving into your chest and twisting until there was nothing left of your heart?"

Quinn set her coffee down with a trembling hand, afraid what she'd already drunk would come up if Elle kept on. "Yeah that… that's pretty accurate."

"I know," Elle said softly. "It's how I felt when I started ignoring Jamie, thinking that we weren't meant to be bound together."

"How… you felt?" Quinn's eyes were wide; she braced her hands on the coffee shop table to stop them from shaking even more violently.

She'd never thought…

"How I felt," Elle confirmed. "I had pulled myself away from my best friend, stopped talking to her, and stopped interacting with her. In a way I'd broken a connection… but I wasn't actually bound to her."

"A-and it hurt you."

"There have been… a few cases of people doing what Rachel has done," Elle said carefully. "Some studies have been done about exactly what Rachel would have faced the moment she broke your connection, and even before the actual severing of it."

She didn't want to know the answer, she didn't. But she asked anyway. "What… would it have been like?"

Elle reached out tentatively, until her fingers lightly touched Quinn's in a gesture of comfort. "Painful," she said. "Those who have successfully broken fate's connection have had to prepare for days, weeks, months even."

Quinn thought back to when she was 15, wondering if Rachel had distanced herself, had purposely withdrawn from Quinn to… what, make it easier? She couldn't remember, but she didn't know if she didn't remember because it hadn't happened, or she didn't remember because she didn't want to remember.

"And then when the connection is broken, there's actual, physical agony much like what you experienced, if not more."

"More?" Quinn didn't know how anything could hurt more than what she had felt that day.

"More because not only did Rachel have to sever the connection, but she had to keep it so. Did she say anything to you, just before?"

_I love you, Mistress._

Quinn remembered that.

Elle shook her head. "Most of the people studied actually wanted to sever the connection. For whatever reason, Rachel had to. She hadn't fallen out of love with you; she didn't want to break the connection. But she did."

"But _why_?"

"I don't know, Quinn. All I know is that just… made it worse for her."

"How?"

"Do you really want to know?" Elle continued at Quinn's nod. "She didn't want to break the connection, but she did. So in addition to the physical pain, she's had to deal with the emotional agony of ripping herself away from you. She was bound to you for 8 years, and then suddenly… nothing."

"I'm aware," Quinn said bitterly, pulling her hand out from under Elle's. She wouldn't feel sympathetic, she couldn't. Rachel had broken the connection; everything Quinn had gone through had been because of Rachel. As much as she loved her, Quinn couldn't feel sorry for her.

"Are you?" Elle dipped her head so that Quinn was forced to look at her. "Imagine Rachel. She's just broken the connection with you. That first night, she's lying in her bed, trying desperately to cry herself to sleep but not able to because of _how much it hurts her_, and trying desperately to not think about what she's just done to you. Her mistress, that she loved, who is probably sobbing and in so much pain, begging her to just take you back, that whatever it is you'll fix it, that you love her."

"Stop," Quinn whispered, feeling the tears beginning to course down her face.

"So night after night she comforts herself by saying that in time, you'll stop hurting and you'll learn to hate her. You'll hate her, and you'll forget her, and in time, maybe, _her_ hurt will stop, and she can forget _you_. Even though she doesn't want to. Even though she never wanted to. Night after night, Rachel survives by convincing herself that you could never want her, you could never love her, and that what she wants is never going to happen, so she might as well move on."

"I've always loved her," Quinn sniffled, wiping the rapidly descending tears away with the napkin Elle handed her. "I'd never not want her."

"I know. And then you show up and you burst Rachel's protective little bubble that she's created around herself. To keep from missing you. To keep from wanting you. To keep from loving you. But you walk into that diner and it all comes rushing back in an instant."

Elle shifted her chair next to Quinn's, so she could wrap an arm around her and hold her as she cried. "In a way," she said, her tone full of regret, "Rachel has been far more damaged than you, Quinn. She's had to cope with whatever made her decide to sever the connection, and the fact that she did something so horrible to you. She's had to protect you from her, herself from you… the connection isn't the only thing that got broken. Rachel broke herself."

"But I don't know _why_," Quinn sobbed, and she felt Elle shrug.

"I don't either. What I do know is that you did the right thing by walking away from her at the diner, and then at the grocery store."

Quinn sat up and shook her head, wiping her eyes again and trying to smile feebly at Elle to show she was okay, even though she felt nowhere near okay. "No, I'm making her chase after me like some idiot."

"Is that what you think this is?" Elle asked, a note of amusement in her voice. "You don't put too much trust in fate, do you?"

"Yeah well fate loves me about as much as Van did after I got him fixed."

Elle laughed, and Quinn couldn't help but grin. "So you think Rachel just randomly decided to show up at the same grocery store where you were? That she just randomly happened to look up and see you?"

"… yes?"

"No." Elle stood up and threw away her cup, moving to the door and waiting patiently for Quinn to join her.

Quinn didn't think she wanted to go out to the auction now. All she could see, all she could think about was Rachel, curled up in her little pink room, crying herself to sleep. Why had she never _once_ thought about what it had done to _Rachel_? But it was too late to think about that; all that mattered was fixing it _now_.

"Come on," Elle said, holding up the door with a reassuring smile. "Let's go buy some Broadway goodies while I tell you all about fate."

"Tell me about fate, huh?" Quinn said, unable to hold back a smile seeing Elle's enthusiasm. She could see why Jamie loved the girl so much. She was passionate about everything in her life: from her education, to her family, to her lady. As submissive as she was, Elle was also obstinate, sassy, and not afraid to come up against Jamie if she thought the situation warranted it.

And Jamie, she told Quinn, loved the challenge. There was nothing she found hotter, she said, than being proven wrong by Elle.

"It's funny how both you and Rachel think you can control how this works," Elle mused as she walked with Quinn back into Times Square. "Both of you think you can circumvent God, or fate, or a higher power, whatever this is."

"I don't want to circumvent fate," Quinn countered. "I want it to work for both of us."

"And yet you can't even see that it is working for you," Elle said with a good-natured roll of her eyes. "I mean, you found Rachel in some random diner in New York. Do you have any idea how many diners there are? Out of all the diners in the world," she added, her voice sounding like a 1950s noir crime drama, "You just had to walk into hers."

Quinn laughed, stopping to rifle through some autographed playbills set up at one of the tables. "Okay, but that could've been a coincidence."

"And then she walked into my grocery store, looking at the magazine rack until somehow, her eyes met mine. She was beautiful, a powerhouse, a woman beyond her time…"

"Okay okay!" Quinn held up her hands to stop Elle's perfect imitation of old television, and shook her head. "I get it. "

"No, you really don't. Ooh, Les Miserables!" She nudged Quinn with her elbow. "My lady says any musical that names a character Jean ValJean isn't worth her time."

"Your lady should blame the book then, and not the musical," Quinn said, and smiled a little to herself. Rachel would have been impressed with that.

"I'll be sure to tell her _you_ said that," Elle said with a grin, then looked at Quinn. "You two think you're on some treasure hunt, trying to find and capture the other. You can't even see that fate is bringing you together on a silver platter. It always has, and it always will. You just have to be ready to accept it."

"Neither one of us are ready," Quinn said, moving to another table and smiling at the actor sat behind it. He had played Fiyero, the first time she'd seen Wicked, and she wondered if Rachel had seen him as well. She wondered what Rachel had thought about the performance, because she remembered that as a little girl Rachel had been particularly fond of critiquing the performances she'd seen on the Tonys, when she'd managed to sneak past her mother and watch them. "She doesn't want a dominant, and I don't think I'm good enough for a submissive right now."

"And… you have to be a domme and she has to be a sub for you two to get coffee?" Elle asked. "No one is saying that you have to put her on her knees as soon as you find her."

Quinn winced, remembering that that had been exactly her plan. "I know."

"You and Rachel have a lot to work through. You want to know why she broke your connection. She needs to trust enough to let you back in, and probably to forgive herself for hurting you the way she did."

"I forgive her," Quinn whispered.

She wondered how Elle caught it over the noise of the crowd, but the young woman did, and she wrapped her arm around Quinn's waist to squeeze her, briefly. "I know you do. And my lady forgave me for hurting her." For a moment Elle's eyes took on a faraway, pained look, before they cleared and she smiled again.

"But it's important for Rachel to forgive herself. All you need is for fate to give you both a push in the right direction, and a few cups of coffee, some heartfelt conversations, and… who knows where it will lead you."

Quinn looked at Elle, who was occupying herself with looking at a few autographed cds, and she sighed. "How'd you get to be so smart?" she asked.

Elle grinned at her. "Neurosurgery," she joked. "Now come on, my lady said if you didn't have fun I was going to be sitting on pillows for the rest of the week so… have fun, damn it."

It was nice, Quinn thought, to be able to hang out with a submissive that wasn't Sam, and a submissive that was also another woman. She suspected that that had been Elle and Jamie's plan all along, when Jamie had begged off the trip to the flea market so that she could do homework, and suggested that Elle go instead. Jamie no doubt knew that Elle might be able to explain things from Rachel's point of view, or, at least, from the point of view of a submissive who had once also tried to break a sort of connection. It was ever apparent to Quinn why Elle and Jamie had been a perfect match for each other. Elle's quiet deference with occasional flashes of obstinacy complemented Jamie's protective nature as well as her desire to be challenged.

They were, Quinn thought, a match made in perfect fate.

She wasn't sure if she and Rachel were, anymore, but Quinn hoped fate gave her another chance to find out.

The flea market stretched from Times Square to West 44th Street, Shubert Alley and 46th Street. Quinn felt as if she could walk for miles and still not see everything that she was meant to take in. But it wasn't just the Broadway merchandise, the stars who were in front of her in the flesh instead of up on the billboards, or the fans crowding past her to get autographs and pictures.

No, it was the city, looming high and bright above Quinn, and she smiled to herself, taking in a deep breath and trying not to stare into the sun as she looked up. New York. It was her city, she realized again. Something had brought her here, and Quinn wasn't altogether sure that it had been just Rachel.

Maybe, she thought to herself, she wasn't meant to be just a real estate agent, just as Rachel wasn't meant to be a music teacher or a waitress at some greasy spoon down the street. Maybe something stronger than Quinn had led her, by way of Sue Sylvester, of all people, to New York. First to find Rachel, but in the end, to find who she was meant to be. As a person. As a woman. As an artist. As a Dominant.

Or maybe, Quinn laughed to herself, she was just being ridiculous.

She turned towards another table, and the laughter died on her lips.

She was standing with her back pressed up against a wall in the alley. She had a playbill in her hands, hands that trembled so hard Quinn could just barely make out the yellow, green and black on the front cover.

Wicked.

Rachel wasn't flipping through the pages; she was just staring at the two witches on the front, her fingers tracing its outline. Her face was half-hidden by her long dark hair, nearly black in the sunlight, but Quinn could see the tears streaming down her face. There was something that Quinn hadn't ever seen before, an expression of indescribable hurt and longing and Quinn realized that finally she was catching a glimpse of _Rachel_, the Rachel beyond the girl who tried to act as if everything was perfectly fine. And what she saw was breaking Quinn's heart, because Rachel Berry, _her_ Rachel, her princess… was in pain.

The playbill tumbled to the street when a hot wind picked up and suddenly Rachel's head lifted, Rachel caught sight of her, and Quinn lost her breath.

She didn't know what she'd have to do, but she knew, as Rachel stared at her with tear-filled, anguished brown eyes, that she'd do anything to see a smile return to the girl she still hoped could be her little one.

"Come on, princess," Quinn murmured to herself. "Come here, Rachel. It's all right." She threw all she had into the emotion, into the feeling, as she tried to make Rachel feel the comfort, tried to help her hear the words of reassurance.

"I'm right here; it's going to be okay…."

Her shoulders slumped in disappointment when Rachel turned on her heel and ran off; Elle reached out to grab her arm when Quinn started off after her.

"She's not ready," Elle said.

"I know, I just—" Quinn pulled her arm out from Elle's grasp and darted across the street without hesitation, narrowly missing being hit by a truck as she headed straight for the alley.

Once there, she picked up the playbill, dusting it off and looking down at it, her fingers tracing the same path that Rachel's had over the outline of the two witches. She kept going to the show, Quinn remembered, a slow smile spreading over her face. Her mother would get angry with her, but Rachel was still going to shows. Especially Wicked.

A misunderstood witch and her blonde best "friend."

Maybe, just maybe… Rachel Berry was _still_ meant for Broadway.

"I would hate to know what my punishment would have been if you'd have ended up in the hospital today," Elle huffed as she came to stand beside Quinn and catch her breath. "So I really hope you don't plan on doing that again."

Quinn shook her head at the young woman, the smile still apparent on her face. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "But I had to get—" She lifted it up, showing Elle, and she nodded.

"How long has it been since Rachel severed your connection?"

"Almost five years," Quinn answered, though she knew Elle knew that, and waited patiently for the young woman's point.

"And how long have you been in New York?"

"A year."

Elle nodded again. "And… how many times have you 'coincidently' run into Rachel since you came to New York?"

Quinn sighed and raised her eyes to the sky, but she couldn't seem to stop smiling. "Three times."

"Hmm." Elle grinned impishly. "Still think fate has nothing to do with it?"

She wanted to roll her eyes. She wanted to insist that it was just another happy accident, that of course Rachel would have been at the flea market, considering how much she loved Broadway. That it was just, once again, a fluke that Quinn had decided to come even though she'd never even considered it before.

But the look on Rachel's face, the tears filling brown eyes that should never be sad, told Quinn that to protest would be pointless. And it filled her with hope, even as she remained hopelessly worried about the girl who had, once again, run away from her.

No, fate had everything, _everything_ to do with it. And Quinn would wait, for as long as it took, for Rachel to know it too.


	13. Spinning

It seemed that fate had decided to take a vacation.

Christmas came and went, and Quinn left New York to spend a couple of weeks with her family. Even before and after the visit, though, she hadn't seen Rachel. She had started to return to her old habits of checking store windows, of taking random routes to the grocery or to school, but each time she was met with the familiar disappointment of not catching sight of brown hair and deep brown eyes.

It was just as well, Quinn thought, because Rachel's eyes that day in Times Square still haunted her. She couldn't get them out of her mind: the dark pain mirrored there, or the tears that had coursed down her cheeks. There was something else in her eyes that Quinn had thought she'd seen, but maybe she had, like always, wanted it so much she'd imagined it. But she couldn't shake the feeling that in the midst of Rachel's pain, the agony of whatever was going on in her head and heart, Quinn had seen something else, the moment Rachel's eyes had met hers.

Something that looked a lot like hope.

She'd tried not to think so much about what Elle had told her that day, about how much the separation would have hurt Rachel as well, possibly even more than it had hurt Quinn. Quinn had felt more than a little ashamed of herself, because in the five years since her heart had broken her single focus had been to fix herself by finding Rachel, to _make_ Rachel explain _why_… and not once had she thought of how much "her" little one had hurt after that night. But it seemed as if the more she tried not to think about it, the more she would see Rachel's eyes and feel that old ache in her heart, now magnified even more.

And then the invitation came.

She had taped it to her refrigerator, and everyone who knew her would laugh at the way that she'd pause to trace it with her fingers, every time she went for a glass of milk or the rest of that salad for dinner. It was fairly simple, even unimpressive, with just black lettering on stiff white stock. But the lettering meant everything.

_The New York University Art Department cordially invites Quinn Fabray to present her artistic endeavors at our annual Winter Showcase._

She'd been disappointed that her parents and grandmother couldn't come, but Connie had taken a cruise with some women from her karaoke group, and Judy Fabray had just gotten over a bout of the flu and was still not well enough to travel. But their pride in her was evident; Quinn had had to hold the phone away from her ear when her grandmother had found out. Her father had offered to pay her first six months' rent on a new, larger apartment as an incentive, saying that she would need a bigger place "once Rachel comes to stay."

But to her surprise, Quinn had declined.

"We don't know what she wants, Dad. I mean a bigger place would be nice but Van and I are happy where we are."

Van had looked at her reproachfully before padding off to the bed to ignore her for the rest of the day. Quinn rolled her eyes.

It had meant a lot to her that her parents were starting to be more open about Rachel; when they had heard that she'd found Rachel they were concerned that Quinn would lose sight of her education, but they were also cautiously optimistic. Quinn suspected that it was less approval of Rachel, and more that they knew just how stubborn her daughter could be.

And it wasn't like thoughts of "what if" weren't still dancing around her head, especially now that they had had their little "chance encounters," but after a month with no contact, Quinn had started to wonder if maybe fate was curled up on a beach somewhere, drinking a mojito and taking in the sights.

"I think a mojito is probably too girly for fate," Jamie said.

"He'd have a beer," Sam agreed as they made their way towards the gallery, pushing past people rushing home in the dimming sun.

"Who says fate is a he, though?" Elle asked. "After all, the _moirai _are goddesses, endlessly spinning each of our threads." She grinned at Quinn, who smiled back.

"Someone find me a couch, I think I'm going to swoon," Jamie declared with her hand melodramatically over her heart, and Quinn shook her head, thinking that Jamie and Rachel would get along, if they ever met.

"Did I ever tell you intelligence was sexy?"

"At least once a day, my lady," Elle said, and slipped her hand into Jamie's with a soft smile.

"Only once a day? Huh, I need to up my game before someone sweeps you away."

"Not happening, but," Elle glanced at Quinn, who was trying desperately not to hear their conversation. She was trying to keep down her jealousy whenever she saw them interact, but it was even more acute now that Rachel was so close but still yet so far away.

"I think maybe we should have more discussions about what Fate would drink."

"Beer," declared Sam emphatically.

"Coke."

"Ew, no, that's blasphemy, pet. Pepsi."

"No, no, no! Come on, you think after sitting around whirling threads all eternity—"

"Spinning."

"Spinning threads all eternity, Fate's just going to sit there and tilt back a Pepsi? Wait, I got it, I got it. Vodka."

"Fate probably would be a little stressed out…"

"All those threads everywhere…."

"Fate would need to relax somehow."

"I'm telling you, vodka."

"Each and every one of you is insane," Quinn said, but she was laughing and grateful for the distraction as they finally made it to the gallery. She stopped a few feet from the door to stare at the sign in the window.

"It has my name," she said half to herself, unable to take her eyes off it, halfway down the sign. She felt an arm slip around her shoulders and she smiled up at Jamie. "Apparently I'm 'one of NYU's rising artists,'" she joked, and felt silly at the sudden rush of tears.

She wished Rachel was here to see it.

"You're the best of the rising artists," Jamie clarified, squeezing her. "Now come on, Fabray, pull yourself together."

"I just wish—"

"I know what you wish," Jamie interrupted her, but softened her tone when Elle appeared at her side with a gentle hand on her arm. "But what you need to realize is that this night is all about you. Not about Rachel, not about you and Rachel. Just you. Own this, Quinn, because this is all you and your talent."

"While you ladies are out here being mushy and supportive, Fate and I are going to find the alco-" Sam stopped, tilting his head, and then grinned, a light blush appearing on his cheeks.

"Yeah, I got it, Puck. Not too much."

She didn't like it, Quinn thought, that Sam's intended chose to dominate his life without even being a part of it, or even seeming to want to be any time soon. But it wasn't her life and Jamie was right, this night was supposed to be about Quinn and her achievements. She walked into the gallery, which was already filling up with other students and their families, as well as servers walking around with champagne and hors d'oevres.

"Champagne?" Sam said. "Fate is disappointed, and so am I." Still, he grabbed a glass from a tray and held it out to Quinn. "For the artiste."

Quinn smiled. "You take it," she said. "I need to find the restroom first."

It was located in a narrow, dark corner of the gallery; Quinn slipped inside a stall and took a deep breath, leaning her forehead against the door. This was it, she thought, only vaguely hearing the restroom door creak open again. Someone was washing their hands, humming Twinkle Twinkle Little Star wordlessly, and she grinned to herself a little.

She'd finally done it. This was the first time in her life that Quinn Fabray actually felt like she had achieved something. On her own, without any help from her parents or her grandma, or even Fate. She was going to go out there and wow everyone with her personality, with her talent, with her… what did Rachel call it, that one time?

Right, right, her witty repartee.

Quinn took another deep breath and smoothed her hand over the white dress and jacket she wore, put her handle on the stall door and turned…

And ran smack into someone else.

"Rachel?"

"Oh, come on!" the girl exclaimed, throwing up her hands after a moment's hesitation. "This is getting ridiculous!"

She was wearing… a server's outfit, Quinn realized. It was the same black pants and vest with a long-sleeved white shirt that the others were wearing, minus the men's black bow ties. Her hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head, but a few strands of hair had escaped its confines and framed brown eyes that weren't dark with hurt or pain, but lit with a strange fire as she actually huffed and folded her arms across her chest, glaring at Quinn.

Quinn clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to maintain control under the realization that Fate may have taken a vacation, but She was back to work now. Spin that thread, Quinn thought to herself, and then smiled at Rachel.

"Hi."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Hello," she said finally.

"Did you, uh, stop working at the diner?" Quinn wasn't sure if she'd classify serving at an art gallery as much better, but her heart was still racing from the fact that the one person she'd wanted to share this moment with… was actually here. With her. The bathroom suddenly felt so much smaller, and they were so much closer.

And she really needed to stop staring at Rachel's lips.

Rachel shook her head. "Burt has a small events company on the side. I needed some extra m- extra _work_ so he offered."

"Oh." Quinn wondered why Rachel would need extra money, and couldn't stop from blurting out "Seen Wicked too many times this month?"

Rachel's mouth dropped open a little while Quinn wanted the earth to open up and swallow her, but she managed a grin when Rachel said quietly, "One can never see Wicked too many times."

"No, I suppose not."

"Why are you here?" Rachel asked suspiciously. "Did you know I would be?"

"No," Quinn answered with a shake of her head. "I didn't. I um, I'm one of the artists." She gestured weakly towards the gallery that awaited them outside the bathroom.

Rachel's eyes widened. "You're an artist?"

There was a hint of awe and maybe even a little pride in her voice, but again Quinn might have been imagining that. Still, she blushed and ducked her head.

"I paint every now and then," she downplayed it. "Submitted three of my paintings and I guess they liked them."

"I-I guess they did." Rachel's head was down, but she was looking up at Quinn, and worrying her lower lip with her teeth.

"I should… probably get back to work."

The wave of desperation was swift, but Quinn fought it down and forced a smile.

"No rest for you, huh?"

Rachel nodded, a slight curl to the corner of her lips. "No rest at all. I hope you have a lovely night, Quinn. You… deserve it."

"Thanks," Quinn replied, but Rachel was already gone out the door. Quinn sighed and followed her with a shake to her head.

Within minutes, Quinn found herself caught up in a whirlwind of New York gallery life, or at least NYU exhibition life. Many of her professors surrounded her, as well as some of the girls from her sorority. She found herself explaining the meaning behind the paintings – although Sam's was a little difficult to explain without scandalizing everyone. Someone delivered roses to her from her parents, and as she read the card she caught sight of Rachel watching her, only to turn pink to the tips of her ears and vanish around the corner.

Finally catching a break after an hour or so, Quinn found Elle and Sam lingering back from the crowd and she gratefully accepted another glass of champagne. "Where's Jamie?" she said, her brow furrowed.

"Here," she said, and appeared at Sam's elbow. The front of her shirt was damp, and Elle quirked an eyebrow at her.

"One of the servers spilled champagne on me," she said in explanation. "It was just an accident, she seemed really distracted."

"My poor lady," Elle said sympathetically. "I'd have brought another shirt if I'd known the art gallery would be dangerous for you."

"Watch it," Jamie warned with a smile, and Elle winked at her.

"So," Jamie said to Quinn. "What's it like being as famous as… some really famous artist?"

Quinn laughed. "I'm not famous."

"Getting there, though," Sam pointed out. "So am I, now that I've been immortalized in oil… offstage."

Quinn choked on her champagne, sputtering as Elle politely patted her back while laughing. "You three are going to destroy my career before it even gets started," Quinn coughed.

"You're welcome," Elle said. "I've been meaning to ask you… have I seen who I think it is here?"

Quinn nodded, regaining her breath. "Yeah. She's here."

"She?"

"Rachel."

"Rachel's here?!" Jamie said loudly, and Quinn quickly shushed her. "Where is she? Come on, you've been going on about her for the last year, you can't just not show me who it is."

"Fine," Quinn said through clenched teeth, looking around before she finally spotted Rachel handing a glass of champagne to an already overly-inebriated guest. "That's her." She pointed as subtly as she possibly could, hoping that Rachel didn't notice.

"Oh," Jamie said, and Quinn looked at her suspiciously as a sly grin spread over her face. "Her."

"Yes, her," Quinn said, immediately ready to go to Rachel's defense. "Why'd you say it like that?"

"Because she's the one that spilled champagne on me."

"Oh," Quinn said, her palm immediately finding her cheek as she chuckled. "Distracted, did you say?"

"Very. Now I know why. And she talks… a lot. Did you know that she talks a lot? I mean like she doesn't shut up, she just keeps on and on and—"

"That's quite enough," Quinn interrupted, but her smile was warm. "She talks a lot. If I had a beautiful voice like that I guess I'd talk a lot too."

"I'm going to ignore how stupid that actually sounds," Jamie said, "and just say that she's lovely, Quinn. Really lovely."

"Kind of good to have a face to go with the obsession," Sam said, but Quinn could tell by the expression on his face that he was really just joking to lighten the mood. Of anyone, she figured Sam knew the most how hard it was for her to be away from the one she wanted to share the night with.

"You're both just being really terrible," Elle said with a slight pout, then smiled as she wrapped Quinn up in a hug. "Don't mind them, Quinn, they're just silly."

"Thank you, Elle." Quinn stuck her tongue out at Jamie over Elle's shoulder. "I'm glad at least someone understands."

Quinn didn't want to be the person who stood and watched Rachel during the whole event, especially since there were so many people that apparently wanted to come up and talk to her now, but not watching Rachel proved to be a little impossible, since Rachel had apparently taken it upon herself to hover near enough to Quinn to watch _her_, while also maintaining a distance.

And it seemed that Rachel's concentration was centered on one person. The sweet, smiling girl who talked easily with Quinn from her position standing at her left. Answering her questions and making her laugh and relax with simple conversation. Taking her mind off the petite server that continually watched them.

But if Elle noticed the hole Rachel's eyes were boring through her, she didn't say anything.

Eventually everyone began to filter out of the gallery with Elle, Jamie, and Sam lingering with Quinn as she said her last goodbyes to all of her well-wishers. She was ready to head for the door herself when she caught sight of one of the servers, standing in front of the paintings, staring intently at Quinn's rendering of Jamie and Elle.

"I um… I'll catch up with you guys tomorrow sometime," Quinn said, watching Rachel.

"We were going to get food," Jamie protested, and Elle shook her head, tugging at her arm.

"Quinn has more important things to think about than food right now, my lady," she said, and Quinn gave her a grateful smile.

"What's more important than food?" Sam asked, but followed his two newfound friends out the door with a thumbs-up at Quinn.

Quinn waited until more of the servers had cleaned up the gallery and disappeared into the back rooms before she set her face with determination, and walked up to stand next to Rachel. She was quiet, knowing that anything they would do, even speaking, needed to be on Rachel's terms. Part of Quinn was content just to stand there; it hadn't escaped her mind that this was the closest she had ever really been to Rachel, close enough to feel the other girl's heat, and it sent a thrill through her.

But she also had to counter herself, to maintain the emotional distance that Rachel herself had created. So Quinn was silent, and waited. Finally it paid off.

"She's beautiful."

"Which?" Quinn asked, feeling stupid by the question.

"The little one," Rachel said, and Quinn smiled slightly.

"Elle," she supplied.

"Elle," Rachel repeated. Suddenly she reached up and pulled the pins out of her hair; Quinn's breath caught in her throat when the dark locks fell over Rachel's shoulders. Her fingers itched to run through them; she clutched her black purse tightly to her chest to stay her hands.

"She looks as if she's very sweet."

"She is," Quinn nodded. "She's a very nice girl. I like her a lot."

"Yes, that was apparent."

Quinn arched an eyebrow, turning slightly to look at Rachel fully. "So you were watching us."

Rachel flushed again, and Quinn realized that it was absolutely adorable. "I could lie and say of course not, that I would never do such things, but since I've already obviously called myself out…"

"You really have," Quinn laughed, then quieted once more, since Rachel hadn't taken her eyes off the painting. What was Rachel's interest in it, she wondered.

"The other girl in the painting—"

"Jamie."

"Jamie. She was here tonight as well, I'm sure she told you that I spilled champagne on her, much to my mortification."

"It's fine," Quinn was quick to reassure her. "She um… she knows, so it was fine. She wasn't angry at all."

"Oh. Well that… that's good," Rachel said, and Quinn's heart ached when the petite young woman unconsciously hugged herself.

Had she been afraid Jamie would be angry? That _she_ would be angry that Rachel had (accidentally) made a mistake.

"I'm curious," Rachel said softly, "About why Jamie is in this painting with Elle."

Quinn tilted her head in confusion. "Well because she's Elle's mistress."

"Oh," Rachel said again, sounding surprised and—was that relief? "I thought that… I thought…"

She didn't complete her sentence, and suddenly, everything was clear to Quinn.

Rachel had watched her. Watched her, with Elle. Had she seen Elle hug Quinn? Had she thought—

"We're not together, Rachel," Quinn clarified gently.

It should have elated her that Rachel was, it was obvious now, jealous of the interaction she'd had with Elle that night. And not just that night, Quinn remembered. Rachel had seen her with Elle in Times Square. And so it didn't make her happy, it just filled her with an indescribable sadness.

It couldn't be further from the truth, but Rachel had thought she'd finally moved on.

"I was just listening," Rachel blurted out, and Quinn drew back a little, startled. "I wasn't trying to stalk you, I was just listening to you and your… friends, because I don't- I didn't…" She visibly deflated, and shook her head, curling even more within herself, if it was possible.

"Anything you want to know about me, you can ask," Quinn said. Her voice was softer than she thought it had ever been before; she was treading delicate territory here. Her sadness was being replaced by a little hope that Rachel wanted to know about her, that it appeared she was distressed that she didn't know anything about her.

Maybe, all these years, Rachel had worried about her just as much. Maybe, all this time, Rachel had wondered.

Rachel nodded, taking a few steps to the right, to Sam's portrait. She tilted her head, regarding it.

"You're very good," she said, sounding matter-of-fact. "The portraits are an amazing likeness, and they seem to capture… something, though I'm not certain what."

Quinn smiled to herself and glanced down at her feet. If she didn't know any better, she'd think Rachel was trying to sound like someone knowledgeable about art. Which for all Quinn knew, she could very well be. But it was cute, like Rachel was trying…

To connect.

"That's Sam," Quinn said. "He lives in my apartment building, and babysits Van when I go back to Lima."

"Van?"

"My cat."

"You have a cat," Rachel said, a genuine smile crossing over her face, reaching her eyes this time. "I've always wanted a cat."

"You don't have one?"

And just like that, the smile disappeared, and Rachel stiffened. "I don't have any pets," she sniffed. "Allergies."

Your allergies? Quinn wanted to ask, but didn't. "I see," was all she said.

"Are you happy at the university?"

"There are things I wish I could change," Quinn said carefully, "But for the most part, yes. I've met wonderful people like Jamie and Elle and Sam, my sorority sisters. I have some great friends."

"Friends," Rachel echoed. She moved away from Sam's painting, to the last of the set.

"This is—"

"Your grandmother."

Quinn's mouth dropped open, and Rachel nodded at her.

She remembered.

"Does she still sing?"

Of course she remembered. The tears rushed to Quinn's eyes again and she brushed her sleeve across them, quickly.

"Every day," she said with a small laugh. "I don't think it would be my grandmother if she didn't sing." _And it wouldn't be you if you didn't sing._

Or hum Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in a gallery bathroom while she washed her hands.

Rachel nodded again, and then looked up at the clock on the wall. "I should go," she said, and once again Quinn felt the bitter disappointment. "Mom will be expecting me back."

"You probably should. It's late; it's not safe to be out at this hour."

Rachel gave Quinn a knowing look, even as she said "I'll just take the subway back. I have my whistle and my mace, I'll be fine."

It was a little alarming, the thought of Rachel walking around with a… whistle and mace, had she said? But Quinn held her tongue, even as she said sadly, "Right. Well I um… I guess… have a good night, Rachel."

"Coffee."

"What?"

Rachel picked at a loose thread on her vest, refusing to meet Quinn's eyes. "I thought… maybe… if you wanted… coffee." She finally looked at Quinn. "But just coffee. Nothing else. I mean, we could talk, while we have coffee, but that's it. Not a date. Just coffee. Or tea, tea, if you like tea."

She felt as if the smile would split her face. "Rachel, are you asking if I'd like to get coffee with you?"

"Not tonight, because I can't. But… tomorrow, maybe, if you're not busy. Or the next day if you are, or next week if you can't do it this week, I—"

"Tomorrow is fine," Quinn interjected, resisting the urge to jump up and down like a child at Christmas at Rachel's rambling.

"Oh," Rachel said, looking as if Quinn's agreement had startled her. "Well… there's a coffee shop just before you get to the diner?"

"I know it," Quinn affirmed. _I've looked for you there more than once._ "Is three too late in the afternoon?"

"No, no, that would be… perfect," Rachel said, and it melted Quinn's heart that the girl actually sounded shy. "I-I'll… see you at three, Quinn."

"See you at three," she repeated, watching as Rachel moved towards the door.

Once there, though, Rachel stopped and turned. "Congratulations, Quinn," she said, and once again her soft smile seemed to reach her eyes. "You really do deserve this."

Quinn sank against the wall next to her paintings while she watched, through the gallery window, as Rachel moved down the sidewalk towards the subway station. She laughed to see the whistle and mace clutched tightly in her hands, and Quinn shook her head in amazement.

Somewhere in the universe, the threads were spinning.


	14. Double Shot of Espresso

"We need to set some ground rules before we get started."

Quinn stared at the petite woman sitting across from her, and merely nodded.

Rachel had come to the coffee shop wearing jeans and a simple shirt, along with a perfume that seemed to be a mixture of baby powder and sex, and Quinn had groaned to herself and hastily snapped the leash onto her inner horndog.

There had been no hug, which Quinn hadn't really expected anyway, but it would've been nice. Nice, though, was the look on Rachel's face as she'd walked up to Quinn, waiting for her outside the coffee shop. Red-cheeked from the cold, and maybe something else, she'd smiled at Quinn with a quiet "Hi," and she was quiet and shy still, completely un- Rachel Berry-like, as Quinn held open the door and ushered them both inside.

Quinn had ordered tea and Rachel had nodded, as if remembering that Quinn was a fancy tea girl, and not the sort to just down a black coffee in the morning before classes. She'd turned to Rachel to ask her order, but Rachel waved her off with the money in her hand, and once Quinn had paid for her own, ordered a double shot espresso.

"You'll be bouncing off the walls," Quinn had said in awe – and a little concern – but Rachel had just laughed. Coffee and tea clutched in slightly trembling hands, they'd sat down at a table in the back, and stared awkwardly across at each other, before Rachel had taken a deep breath, and spoken with the tone of someone determined to guard her heart.

Ground rules, Quinn thought to herself. She'd figured that Rachel would have some limits to their not-date, but she also hadn't expected Rachel to come right out with them as soon as they'd sat down. But Quinn also knew that Rachel was probably still scared, and probably still didn't know how Quinn would react or what she would do. This only served to make Quinn feel even guiltier for her behavior at the diner, but she pushed it down and focused back on Rachel. Still, even though she knew why the limits were being set, she wasn't sure she liked it.

"Go ahead."

But she'd do it for Rachel.

Rachel nodded, even though she looked surprised, and she cleared her throat. "You can't ask me why."

"But I—"

"No." Her voice was sharp, almost cold, sounding every bit as it had that first day Quinn had seen her at the diner. She tried to look past the anger to remember that this was Rachel, this had been her Rachel, and if she was angry and wanting to shield herself, she had a good reason.

It just wasn't a reason that Rachel felt Quinn needed to know.

"You can't ask me why, and if you attempt it, I will get up and walk out of thi—"

"I won't ask, just please don't leave."

_Again_. She didn't say it, but the purse of Rachel's lips as she regarded Quinn told her that the meaning had been clear enough.

"What other rules do you have?"

It was absurd, Quinn told herself. Absurd to be sat there like a submissive, asking _Rachel_ what the rules were. She knew their dynamic had changed, knew that it had to change. But now Quinn felt trapped in a game, a game where Rachel made all the rules and Quinn was as helpless as if she was hogtied and blindfolded, waiting for a Dominant to come and have her way with her. She wondered if Rachel was enjoying this, if somewhere in the back of her mind she was reveling in having Quinn at her mercy.

But one look at her eyes… and Quinn's brief flash of anger melted away. It was true, that old cliché about the eyes being the window to the soul, and Rachel's soul was in pain. Even when she smiled the happiness didn't quite reach her eyes, except for a fraction of a second when she would glance over at Quinn, a dimple creasing her cheeks and the… _oldness_ in her eyes giving way to what Quinn now believed, with everything she had, was hope.

Rachel was hoping for something.

Rachel was hoping for _her_.

Quinn would obey every rule in the damn book Rachel wrote, if she had to.

Rachel ticked them off on her fingers. "Don't ask me if I'm happy, because I am. Don't ask me if I'm safe, because I am. Don't ask me if I need money, because I don't. Don't ask me if I'm moving in with you, because I won't." She stopped and looked at Quinn.

"Any questions?"

"How's your mother?"

Rachel scoffed. "I forgot that one," she said with a shake of her head, and Quinn didn't miss the way that Rachel seemed to actually physically get smaller, before she straightened back up with a stiff line to her jaw.

"She's f-fine. She's doing well."

She'd stuttered. Quinn nodded slowly, looking down at the paper cup of tea in her hands, and ignored it. She glanced up and met Rachel's eyes.

"Why don't you ask me questions?" she said. Rachel had listened – well, eavesdropped – to her conversations with Sam, Elle, and Jamie at the gallery, and had practically admitted to wanting to know things about her. And since she wasn't allowed to ask very many of her own, or at least the ones she really wanted to…

"Are you happy?"

Quinn shut her eyes briefly and smiled before reopening them. "Like I said at the gallery, there are things I wish I could change. But yes, I'm happy."

"And you're… safe? You live in a good neighborhood?"

It wasn't the best neighborhood, Quinn explained, but it was relatively safe and she wasn't worried.

"Plus my dad wants to help me get a new place; I don't know, I might take him up on it."

It'd be nice, if Rachel ever decided to visit, to have more to offer her than a studio apartment. And Quinn knew that Van would be happy to have more space to terrorize.

"Do you like living alone?"

There was something wistful in Rachel's voice now, and Quinn swallowed past the lump in her throat. She'd thought Rachel would have been on her own by now, and she'd be lying if she said it hadn't surprised her that Rachel was still with her mother. She didn't like it, especially since things had seemed so strained when she and Rachel were children. But she figured that was yet another thing that she couldn't ask, and so Quinn simply answered Rachel's question.

"It's nice. I like being able to just come home and dump my clothes on the floor, which I probably do more than I should," she admitted, grinning sheepishly, which grew wider when Rachel giggled. "I can stay up as late as I want, watch whatever I want."

"But it gets lonely," she ended softly. "Sometimes I miss my parents, my grandma. Sometimes I miss… other people."

"Do Jamie and Elle come over at all?" Rachel avoided what Quinn had alluded to altogether, an expert at ignoring certain things, Quinn guessed. "Or Sam?"

"Not really, Van makes it kind of impossible for me to have guests. Oh!" Quinn pulled out her cell phone and quickly scrolled to a picture of Van, pushing her phone across the table to Rachel.

"Oh he looks very… um, very…"

"Like an asshole?" Quinn laughed, and Rachel gaped at her. "Sorry, but I had the pleasure of adopting the crankiest, most hard to please cat ever. And I wouldn't give him back for anything."

"He got hurt though," Rachel said, regretfully handing the phone back to Quinn, and she wondered just how much Rachel had always wanted a pet.

It made her irrationally angry, that she didn't have one, but Quinn fought it down again.

"He's fine now; the other cat probably got the worst of it. Now he's endlessly spoiled and acts like he hates every minute of it."

"Does he let you pet him? Maybe he'd like it if I pet—"

She stopped, biting her lip and flushing pink, and Quinn beamed, even as she made sure not to get ahead of herself.

"Maybe," she said gently. "We'll see."

They fell into semi-awkward silence then, both of them sipping their tea and coffee, pausing to take small glances at each other. Almost as if they were sizing the other up, taking stock, seeing where they stood.

Well, sat.

"You're an artist," Rachel said suddenly, and Quinn jumped a little. "I mean, I was quite certain you would be, you did love to draw so much. I'm glad to see that you still do."

"I still love history, too," Quinn said, "And I don't think I want to try art as a career, I'd really rather not starve." She fidgeted, playing with the buttons on her shirt. It was all so strange. Things felt so familiar but so foreign at the same time; the girl sitting across from her was her Rachel and yet not. So much had changed in five years and Quinn couldn't even ask about it, even those things she was pretty sure hadn't changed at all.

"Do you still sing?" she finally dared to ask. "I mean I've heard you humming so…." She trailed off, unsure of how to finish. Quinn could feel herself flinch a little; she didn't know what kind of reaction a "simple" question such as that would inspire in someone like Rachel

But the young woman smiled, even if it was a little forced. "When something is such a part of you, can you ever really let it go? I find myself singing at the silliest times. There was a greeting card commercial on last night that was using a song from Broadway. I was singing along at the top of my lungs before Mom—" Rachel stopped, looking as if she'd just been caught cheating on a test, and she cleared her throat. "Well, I didn't want the neighbors to complain," she joked, but it was weak, and Quinn's hands tightened around the cup of tea.

So Rachel's mother still didn't like to hear her sing.

She couldn't imagine anyone not wanting to hear Rachel sing. All right, so she hadn't ever actually _heard_ Rachel sing; hearing a person in reality versus in your head was a lot different. But she knew Rachel sounded beautiful. It wasn't even in the way she sang, when she was quietly tucked inside Quinn's mind, but in the way that she talked, in the way that even now, her eyes lit up when she recounted singing along to a card commercial.

Quinn couldn't understand why someone wouldn't want Rachel to sing, when that was all she wanted to hear.

"Tell me about your friends," Quinn said suddenly. "You've already met Sam and Elle, Jamie. I want to know about your friends."

"Oh, Burt," Rachel said, brightening. "He's so nice, even though maybe he doesn't seem like it at the diner. He's just really good at what he does, and he's only a little hard on me. I don't mind it, since he gives me cakes and pies to take home for Mo- for us. He's always been really good to me, and he's always helped me when I need days off and such. He's brought Mom and me some great food at Christmas before, and the bonuses are always very, very nice."

Rachel laughed, and Quinn tried to laugh along, but it bothered her. Rachel had seemed to enjoy talking about Burt, but Quinn had noticed that nowhere in Rachel's breathless ramble was there any mention of a person her age. And Burt was her boss. He could be a friend, sure, but he wasn't a friend like Quinn's own little group. People to support her, to bear her up when times got their hardest.

To understand.

Rachel had just recently graduated, Quinn figured. And though she only remembered slushies and sadness from before Rachel had severed the connection, there had to have been at least one or two people who had been her friends…

"What about school?"

Rachel looked at her suspiciously, and Quinn could practically see the wall that had slammed up around her. "What about it?" she said, trying to affect an air of nonchalance and failing.

"Er… your friends from school?" Quinn tried. "What were they like?"

Rachel shrugged. "I had my studies and… other things to do," she said. "I had acquaintances at school, of course, people with whom I studied… Although that ended up with me giving them the answers more than actual studying."

"Oh," Quinn said, almost to herself, and fell silent.

"Yes…"

She tried not to think of it, of Rachel alone in her school dealing with slushies and the sneers of people who didn't realize that she didn't belong there, who had no clue that Rachel Berry was so much better than they were. She wondered if Rachel would walk the hallways by herself, books clutched tightly to her chest and her brown hair falling into her eyes as she tried to avoid the snares of the high school hierarchy.

If Rachel had gone to school with her, Quinn wondered, and they had never known each other, would she have been one of them?

"Rachel?"

Brown eyes rose to her hazel ones. "Yes?"

"I'll be your friend."

The corner of Rachel's mouth quirked up. "You want to be more."

It was said so matter-of-factly, but it summed up Quinn's entire existence from the time she was seven years old. She wanted more; they were destined to be so much more…

"I do," she confirmed. "But if that never happens… I want to be your friend."

"I might not be what you want."

_Don't you know you're so much better than I could possibly want?_ she wanted to cry out, but Quinn didn't.

"I want you, as my friend." Quinn shook her head. "I want us to talk, to go for coffee, and maybe go for walks or, I don't know, even to the mall – do you even like the mall?"

"I prefer the smaller shops. Locally-owned, organic, that sort of thing."

"We'll go to the locally-owned, organic, hippie stores then." Rachel raised an eyebrow at her, and Quinn soldiered on with a nervous chuckle. "Or maybe a museum or two, it doesn't matter."

She sighed. "It doesn't matter where we go, or what we do. I just want to be your friend, Rachel."

There was quiet then, broken only by the customers calling out orders and the barista yelling out names; Quinn had the thought that maybe she had just done a very, very bad thing, because Rachel was looking at her oddly and not saying anything, and that was so unlike Rachel as to be unnerving.

Maybe she should just go, Quinn thought. Maybe a friend wasn't what Rachel needed, or even wanted. Or maybe _Quinn_ wasn't the friend Rachel needed, or wanted. Or—

"If we're going to be friends, there's something you need to give me."

"What?" Quinn asked, dumbly, sneaking a glance up at Rachel through the hair that had fallen over her eyes.

"Well, ah… your number," Rachel said, glancing out the window. Her cheeks were pink, matching the slow descent of the sun on the horizon. Had they really been sat there talking that long?

"I mean if we're going to friends and… going to locally-owned, organic but not necessarily hippie stories then… I'll need a way to contact you."

"Oh!" Quinn said, suddenly beaming. Rachel wanted her phone number.

_Rachel wanted her phone number_.

"Sure, you can put it in your phone if you want."

"Oh, shoot!" Rachel said, coloring even more, if possible. "I left my phone at home…"

"That's no problem," Quinn assured her, and reached into her purse. "I can write it do- oh, well, I could if I had something to write with." When had all her pens suddenly vanished?

"Maybe I can help with that?" Rachel reached into her own bag and held out a Sharpie. In response to Quinn's look she said hastily, "For stage door. And one never knows when one might run into a Tony Award winner on the street."

"No," Quinn said, trying to tame the butterflies in her stomach. "One doesn't. But I don't suppose you have paper in that bag of yours? For an artist I'm really unprepared today."

Rachel looked, and then sighed. "I certainly hope I don't run into a Tony Award winner on the street, unless he wants to sign something of my anatomy. Though I'm not into that sort of thing."

Quinn gaped at her momentarily, and then bit her lip. She could get a napkin, she reasoned. All she had to do was go up to the counter and get one. But…

She slowly reached across the table, and with her eyes locked on the other girl…

Quinn Fabray took Rachel Berry's hand.

Rachel's eyes widened, and Quinn could feel her tense, could feel the pressure of Rachel's determination to keep herself safe, and so she waited. Waited, with Rachel's hand in hers, and her eyes never leaving the face of the girl she used to call her princess.

Rachel's hand relaxed in hers, turning palm-up, and Quinn smiled.

She wrote slowly, deliberately, trying to savor the fact that she was holding Rachel's hand. There was no amazing epiphany; no clouds opened up to the sound of thousands of angels singing. There was no realization, no cliché of running across a crowded room into each other's arms.

There was no connection.

But there was Quinn, carefully and gently holding Rachel's hand, each pen stroke light and cautious as she wrote down her number, and signed it with a Q.

She put the sharpie down on the table but didn't move to release Rachel's hand; instead she stared down at it, trying to memorize each and every line, each dip and pool of tan skin, the warmth spreading slowly over her own hand and seeming, she thought, to reach the tips of her own fingers.

She could cry, Quinn knew. She could cry, and fall apart, and clutch Rachel to herself, never letting her go. Because that was the way it was meant to be, that was how it was supposed to play out. Rachel was meant to be hers; Rachel had been born to be hers.

Quinn took a deep breath, smiled, and with her other hand, curled Rachel's fingers around her own palm, covering the numbers, and released her hand.

"There you go," she said softly. "You'll put that in your phone?"

Rachel nodded. "Let me give you mine?"

She wanted Rachel to pick her hand up, to scrawl the numbers on her skin, but Quinn merely retrieved her phone from her pocket and quickly typed it in, saving it.

_Rachel Berry_

A simple entry, that meant so much. Another quick tap and a gold star lit up next to her name.

"Now you're a Very Important Person," Quinn teased lightly, to try to diffuse the tension of the situation, and Rachel laughed a little.

"That's very good to know."

The sun was almost gone now, and Quinn found herself saying, this time, that she really needed to go. She had laundry to be done and Van was probably angry that his food person hadn't made it home yet. Plus, she thought but didn't voice, she really hated the idea of Rachel being out alone in the dark. Quinn knew that she had just as much likelihood of being mugged or worse as Rachel, but if there was one thing that wasn't going away in all of this, it was her protectiveness of the petite brown-eyed girl who was nodding, and saying that she needed to get home as well.

"I could walk you?" Quinn suggested.

"No!" She was somewhat taken aback at the forcefulness, but Rachel quickly recovered herself and said it again, gentler this time. "It's not that far from here to the subway, and I'll be home in no time. Really, it's not necessary."

"If you're sure," Quinn said, following Rachel out of the coffee shop and into the cold air. Rachel noticeably shivered and Quinn's fingers itched to button the girl's coat around her, to tighten the scarf around her neck. But she held back, once again, and found herself smiling at how cute Rachel was, pulling her beret on and taking the mace and whistle out of her coat pocket.

But Rachel lingered without saying goodbye, and Quinn tilted her head. "Rach?"

It was familiar, probably too familiar for the situation, especially since Rachel's eyes shot up to her and she stared, a strange expression on her face.

"Are you… okay?"

"I am," Rachel said slowly. "I was just wondering something."

"Oh. Um… yes, I do think that Elphaba is supremely misunderstood and that things would have been a lot better if Fiyero had just stayed in Munchkinland like he was supposed to?"

Rachel burst into laughter then, and once again Quinn had to swallow past the lump in her throat because it was the most beautiful sound she'd ever heard in her life.

"No," Rachel said, still giggling a little. "Well, I mean yes, but no, that wasn't what I was wondering. I was wondering…"

"Yes?"

"Do you like to bake?"

"Bake?" Quinn repeated.

There was something about Rachel Berry that made her both feel and act like an idiot.

"Bake. You know, pastries, cookies, cake. I really like—"

"Chocolate cake," Quinn said, her eyes lighting up. "I remember."

"I make cakes and cookies sometimes, for one of the community centers here. I could just take some of Burt's, I know he wouldn't mind, but I like to make them. They seem to mean more that way."

"Yeah," Quinn said, "I can see why they would. I don't bake much, but I love it when I do."

"Well, I thought, er… I thought that if you wanted to, perhaps we might bake something together and take it to the community center?"

She wanted to. Oh, how Quinn wanted to. She could scarcely believe her luck, really. Today had started out as… just coffee. Just coffee, with Quinn taking 2 hours to decide what she would wear, and another 30 minutes just to get up the nerve to leave her apartment.

And now she had sat for hours in a coffee shop with Rachel. Had sat and talked with her, had given the girl her number, had held her hand. And now she had Rachel's number, and Rachel wanted to bake cookies with her.

"I'd love to," Quinn said. "Let me know what day you want to, and you'll have to give me directions to your house, but of course I—"

"Not my house."

"I'm sorry?"

"Not my house," Rachel said again, and Quinn saw the wall come up once more. "I'd have to… come to your apartment; we can't bake in my house."

She sounded almost panicked, and Quinn hastened to reassure her. "We can bake at my apartment," she said quickly, then smiled. "Yes, we can bake at my apartment, and you can meet Van."

"I think I'd really like to meet him."

"Just don't be upset when he doesn't like you," Quinn said, silently praying that Van wouldn't bite or scratch Rachel. She didn't think the shelter would like her explanation if she brought him back for that.

"I'll try not to be," Rachel said, "but I hope he does. Um, how does next Saturday sound?"

Next Saturday, next Saturday… "That sounds perfect," Quinn said, feeling sick with excitement.

"You'll text me your address when it gets close?"

"Yeah, yeah, I definitely will."

"Good," Rachel said with a shy glance down at her feet again. "You don't need to worry about buying any ingredients, I'll bring everything."

"And if I want to make my famous Grandma Connie's Chocolate Chip Cookies?"

Rachel grinned. "Then buy what you need, and we'll make Grandma Connie's Chocolate Chip Cookies." She glanced off into the distance, then back at Quinn.

"We're friends, right?"

"Yeah, Rach," Quinn said, thinking of the number etched on the other girl's palm. "We're friends."


	15. Love and War

Quinn stood back a little ways from the doorway, watching as Rachel's eyes scanned rapidly over every inch of her apartment, from the tiny kitchen to the couch in the middle of the floor acting as a "wall" to separate the living room and bedroom. Quinn finally moved inside when Rachel didn't speak, and quietly rested the box full of baking supplies Rachel had brought onto the counter next to what Quinn had bought to make her grandmother's chocolate chip cookies.

"It isn't much," Quinn admitted, leaning over the counter and watching Rachel. "But it suits me and Van, and it's pretty much what I can afford right now. Still, it's—"

"Yours," Rachel said, sounding wistful. Quinn was beginning to hear that tone in her voice a lot, and she hated it. "A little place to call your own. Comfortable," she added, turning in a circle and looking at all the drawings on the walls, before finally facing Quinn with a small smile on her face.

"It's lovely, Quinn, it really is." She was twirling a lock of hair around her finger, a gesture Quinn found adorable, but she knew it also belied how nervous Rachel was, being in her apartment. She couldn't help but think back to their first meeting, back at the diner when she'd stupidly thought that Rachel would come back with her, that they could pick up where they left off, as if nothing had changed.

But so many things had changed. Quinn still loved Rachel, still wanted her, but now she was stuck in the position of backing off, of maintaining her distance, and not just emotionally, but physically as well. She'd held Rachel's hand in the coffee shop just days ago, but today she stood a few feet away, with the physical barrier of the counter between herself and Rachel. Quinn would have laughed, if anyone other than the cheerleaders at her old high school had found her threatening, but it was the hardest for her to realize that _Rachel_ might think of her that way. Every instinct within her was to hold, to hug, to protect. Quinn was beginning to understand that to protect Rachel might mean staying away.

She was brought out of her thoughts by Rachel's sudden gasp, and everything in Quinn went into offense mode, ready to take on whatever it was that was hurting Rachel.

But it turned out that what was hurting Rachel was a 9 pound fur ball, his head raised from his position lounging on the bed. He stared at Rachel, unmoving, as she clasped her hands together and let out another gasp. This time it sounded like a little, excited squeal, and Quinn grinned.

"That's Van," she said. "And a grumpier beast you'll never meet."

"He's adorable!" Rachel said, and went immediately over to the bed.

"No, Rachel, don't, he'll—"

"Who's a sweet boy?" Rachel cooed, sitting on the bed and reaching out to pet Van, who rolled over and offered up his belly for rubs. Rachel obliged, giggling, her eyes lighting up, and soon the apartment was filled with the sound of Van's purrs and his apparently new favorite person's whispers.

"—bite you," Quinn finished lamely, feeling simultaneously jealous and happy.

"You know, it took me two months to get him to purr. It's taken you two minutes!"

Rachel smiled at Quinn as Van batted her hand with his paws, mewing pitifully that she had stopped petting him. "You're still his mommy though," she reassured. "I'll just be content to be his friend."

She tickled his belly, and then stood up. "We should get started baking!"

"I thought you were allergic to cats," Quinn said suddenly, and instantly regretted it when Rachel backed up a little bit. Her face had darkened, become troubled, and Quinn felt like kicking herself.

"I-I mean you said you didn't have pets, because you had…" She trailed off, not knowing what else to say. She _had_ wondered if Rachel had allergies, or if they were her mother's. Or if it was just an excuse.

Rachel shrugged, moving around the counter so that she was next to Quinn. She didn't look at her though, just occupied herself with removing items from the bags she'd brought with her. Flour, eggs, milk, brown sugar, butter… Soon Quinn's tiny kitchen was ready to receive more action than it had in her entire year of living there.

"Maybe Van is just different," she said, but there was no conviction behind the words. "I have medication at home I take if they get too bad, so perhaps I still have some left in my system."

"Maybe," Quinn agreed, awkwardly shuffling the ingredients for her grandmother's cookies to different places, trying to look like she was actually getting ready to bake, rather than trying to figure out a way to stop making things worse every single time she talked to Rachel.

She'd hoped that they'd text a few times before Rachel came over, but they hadn't. She hadn't texted Rachel herself; she knew she had to wait for Rachel to approach her on her own time, and apparently, it hadn't been time yet. Quinn had been terrified that Rachel would back out of their "date," but she hadn't. Probably mostly due to the fact that she had set them up herself, Quinn thought. If Quinn had set the meetings up, Rachel might have been more inclined to bail. Maybe setting the meetings on her own terms had given Rachel more confidence, made her feel as if she had more control over how things might go. Quinn hoped so, as much as it was still slightly annoying.

But that first text, late last night, had been exhilarating.

She'd been lying in her bed, trying to get herself back into the routine of doing homework for the new semester, but instead she was doodling in the margins of her book. Some things never changed, she thought to herself with a smile, remembering all the times she'd been caught drawing in her notebook when she was meant to be concentrating on schoolwork. As much as Quinn loved learning, it was far too easy to get distracted, and the soft chime of her cell phone indicating a text had been all too welcome of one.

_This is a text of the Rachel Berry cell phone system. This is only a text. For your address._

Quinn had laughed harder than she thought she'd ever laughed in her life, and immediately texted back her address, with directions on how to get there from the diner. She'd resisted ending the texts with a heart, and instead attached a smiley. Rachel had only texted back a thank you and nothing else, which was disappointing, but at least she'd gotten two texts.

Baby steps, Quinn told herself. Baby steps were better than no steps at all. She'd always been so used to barreling headfirst into any situation, whether it was a cheerleading competition, a test, or finding Rachel. She never expected that finding Rachel would start to teach her a little more about patience, a little bit more about relaxing and letting things take their own course. A lot about letting Rachel take the reins and dictate things at her own pace. Quinn still had to fight her nature, quite a bit, but she was discovering that it was probably best for both of them, a little less stressful, to just be patient and let life, let fate, take them both wherever she wanted them to go.

"What would you like to bake first?" she asked Rachel softly.

Rachel pondered, and then offered Quinn a shy smile. "Your grandma's cookies."

"Really?" Quinn said in surprise, and Rachel nodded.

"Really."

It was giving her whiplash, if Quinn was going to be honest about it. Rachel wanted her distance, and yet she wanted little reminders of her life with Quinn. She'd _remembered_ little things about her life with Quinn.

She probably, Elle had told her the other day, remembered everything. _Rachel_ was still there, Jamie agreed, even if the connection wasn't. She could try to bury things as far as she wanted, but little memories were bound to come up.

And if Rachel wanted to make Grandma Connie's chocolate chip cookies, well then… Quinn reached for the flour.

"Can you follow a recipe?" she teased gently, and her smile only grew broader when Rachel rolled her eyes.

"Bring it on, Fabray," she said, but then she winked, and Quinn's own eyes widened as she felt her mouth suddenly go dry.

Well then.

They worked together in companionable silence for a little while, broken only by Rachel's soft requests to be handed a spoon or measuring cup, and for Quinn to giggle a little when she had to take a bowl off the shelf for her. Rachel had huffed, which only made Quinn laugh louder, and after a second, Rachel joined in.

"Do you like to bake a lot?" Quinn asked. "I mean, when you're not baking for the community center."

"Not really. I bring enough cakes and pies home from the diner, Mom says I really need to watch my figure."

Rachel paled instantly, biting her lower lip, and Quinn knew without a doubt that Rachel had revealed something she had never meant to, that she never should have. She thought back to when she and Rachel were younger, to how Rachel never spoke of having ice cream on the weekends, or cake except for perhaps on her birthday. There hadn't been candy either, except on a rare occasion. But Rachel hadn't ever really mentioned her weight, either.

Apparently, her mother had mentioned it enough for her. Quinn's hands tightened on the counter, but she took a deep breath and steadied herself. When she spoke, her voice was kind, loving, if still a little broken.

"There's nothing wrong with your figure, Rach. You're beautiful. You always have been."

Rachel finished placing the last batch of cookies into the oven before turning to Quinn.

"Even now?"

She was in an old (Broadway, Quinn noted) tee-shirt that Quinn guessed Rachel wouldn't care if she got it dirty while baking. And really, who wore a skirt to bake cookies? But her hair was long and soft, her curves were perfect, and Quinn's hands ached to touch her face. But she couldn't.

Quinn met her eyes. "Especially now."

Rachel smiled, a flush appearing on her cheeks. "We should get started on the other cookies."

Soon the apartment smelled like a bakery, and anyone walking by Quinn's door would hear the loud chatter and giggles of two young girls, behaving as if they had been friends for years. Quinn was discovering that despite the awkwardness, despite the loss of their connection, she and Rachel had had 9 years of being so tuned into each other it was sometimes as if they were one person. And though that no longer existed, the memory of it remained – for both of them. And though she knew she couldn't ask questions about Rachel's life – or Rachel's _mother_, which is what she really wanted to ask – she could still talk to Rachel about her own life, about her school and funny things that had happened in her sorority. The words flowed easily, and Rachel clung desperately to every one of them.

It was as if she was hungry for every little piece of information she could get about Quinn, and though Quinn felt that it was a little hypocritical since she couldn't ask anything about Rachel that was little more in-depth than a discussion of the weather, at least Rachel was talking with her, interacting with her. At least she was interested. And at least she was smiling and seemingly happy, seemingly relaxed and content. She wasn't leaning against a building in a New York alley, crying over a …

"Oh!" Quinn said suddenly, and Rachel jumped. "Sorry about that," she added in apology. "But I have something for you; I can't believe I forgot to bring it to the coffee shop."

She went over to her desk, barely hearing Rachel's protest as she began to rummage through the papers and art books.

"You really didn't have to get me anything, Quinn, I told you that it wasn't a date, none of this is—"

"Aha!" Quinn stood up triumphantly, and then crossed back over to Rachel, holding it out.

Rachel looked down at what Quinn held in her hand, then back up to Quinn.

"It's yours," Quinn said quietly.

"I-I can't," Rachel faltered.

"It's yours," Quinn said again.

"I have others…"

But the protest was feeble, and Rachel's hands trembled as she took the playbill from Quinn.

"How many others?" Quinn pulled the sheet of cookies out of the oven and placed them on the stove to cool, putting another sheet in to bake.

"Ten," Rachel answered, and Quinn turned to see her hoisting herself up on the counter, her feet swinging like a little girl's.

She smiled.

"Six from New York, and four that I ordered online, from the tours. Five of them are autographed!"

"Six," Quinn corrected, tipping her chin at the playbill still clutched in Rachel's hand.

She hadn't even gone to the show. Just stood outside in the alley for two hours.

"Six," Rachel echoed, tracing the signatures with her fingers, almost like she had done that day in Times Square. "Thank you."

"Tell me about Wicked."

"You've seen it already," Rachel pointed out, and Quinn could see the beginnings of that wall that she was so accustomed to coming up, but she was having none of it.

"I know, but I want you to tell me about it. Just humor me."

Rachel looked at her oddly, but spoke anyway, and Quinn smiled to herself to see the girl's eyes light up.

She listened as Rachel explained the story of the "misunderstood witch" and her college companions, of the deep and abiding friendship between Elphaba and Galinda with a guh. She laughed when Rachel did an impression of Morrible, felt like crying when the wistful tone returned to Rachel's voice as she talked about the beauty of Defying Gravity.

Defying Gravity wasn't meant to be talked about, Quinn knew. It was meant to be sung. It's what she had wanted, all along. But whether Rachel knew what she was trying to do or not, she didn't take the bait.

"And then she leaves Glinda in the end," Rachel said quietly.

"Why did she do that?"

Rachel looked at her, and Quinn steeled herself for the inevitable lecture, the slamming of a door, the loss of contact yet again.

"Because it was for the best," Rachel said, her voice steady, even as she turned away. "Elphaba knew she had to go to keep herself safe, and she knew that in the end, Glinda would be all right."

"I don't think Glinda was all right."

"I know."

"But…" Quinn hesitated. "I think it hurt Elphaba more than it hurt Glinda."

Rachel still wouldn't look at her. "I think it did too."

They were quiet for a little while, before Rachel looked at her and Quinn was surprised to see her grin.

"You have flour on your nose."

"Do I?" Quinn reached up to rub her nose; her fingers were white when she brought them away.

"Huh, I do." Quinn's grin matched Rachel's, then suddenly turned evil. "But you don't," she said, and reached for the flour.

"Oh no, no you don't!" Rachel squeaked, and tried to dart away, but Quinn's hand found her face lightly in a puff of powder, and Rachel shrieked.

"Quinn Fabray that is not fair!"

"All's fair in love and war, Berry," Quinn retorted, not bothering to stop and think about how right that statement was, because suddenly she was blinded with a handful of flour, and she coughed.

"You should know that I always win," Rachel said, dodging Quinn with a giggle, only to squeal again when Quinn feinted and plopped flour on her head.

"I can't walk down a New York street with flour in my hair!"

"They do it in San Francisco?" Quinn laughed when Rachel's response was to growl and lunge at her, which she swiftly avoided.

"That's _flowers_, you insane woman!"

She couldn't help but keep laughing, seeing Rachel standing in the middle of the kitchen, her hands on her hips, glaring at her with a face white with flour. A few seconds later, Rachel joined in, the sound bubbling out of her and filling the apartment, and Quinn stopped just to listen to her, before the sound was interrupted by the sudden blaring of Rachel's phone.

Still giggling, Rachel reached for it where it lay on Quinn's bed, and in an instant, the air changed.

The tension was palpable, as soon as Rachel uttered two little words.

"Hi, Mom."

Quinn busied herself packing the cookies up into the plastic containers Rachel had brought, so that the other girl wouldn't think she was eavesdropping. But still the tone, or rather, the yelling, of the voice on the other end was unmistakable.

"Mom, I'm making cookies for the community center, remember I told you I was going to do that?"

More yelling.

"I'm at the c-center, where else would I be?"

Quinn winced.

So Shelby didn't know she was in New York. Quinn had expected as much; she didn't think that Rachel would be in much of a hurry to reveal that Quinn had found her, but she couldn't deny that it still hurt a little bit. But she tried not to focus on that, and instead focused on the cookies, while still watching Rachel, who was now pacing back and forth across her apartment, one shaking hand fumbling through her hair.

"No, they're not done yet." They were, and Quinn quirked an eyebrow at her, but Rachel wasn't paying attention.

"Probably another hour, I—now? But—"

More yelling. Quinn wanted more than anything to run and grab the phone from Rachel, to take it from her and… throw it out a window. Flush it down a toilet. Or something. Especially when Rachel sighed, and Quinn saw the girl once again shrink into herself.

"Just let me pack everything up, and I'll be home in a few minutes." A pause, and then, obediently, softly…

"I love you too. Bye, Mom."

"You have to go?" Quinn asked. She knew the answer, but hoped it would be different.

It wasn't. "Yeah. Mom says she doesn't feel well."

"Oh. You have to pick up something for her?"

"No," Rachel said, shaking her head, bits of flour flying off, and Quinn tried to remember where her mop was.

"She has medicine at home, but she doesn't… she doesn't like being alone when she's sick."

"Oh," was all Quinn could say. She could understand it, she supposed; she'd wanted to be home when her father had called to say Judy Fabray was ill with the flu. But something about the yelling on the other end of Rachel's phone… she didn't like it.

"Do… may I use your restroom?" Rachel asked. "I want to…" She gestured to her face and her clothes, and Quinn quickly nodded.

"Sure, you can wash up," she said, and tried to smile. "There's soap on the sink, and towels next to the tub."

She took a deep breath when Rachel whispered a soft "thank you" and disappeared behind the door; Quinn sank onto the bed and to his credit, Van padded over to her and flopped down on her lap, looking up at her.

"What am I doing, Van Gogh?" Quinn murmured, scratching lightly behind his ears, and he answered by nuzzling into her hand. "Rachel's bewitched both of us, seems like."

This was too hard, she thought. She'd been enjoying their time together, loving seeing the sparkle in Rachel's eyes and hearing the tinkle in her laugh, but with a simple cell phone ring all of that had vanished. Now Quinn was scared, worried. Now she was beginning to realize something that she'd only had inklings of, ever since she was seven years old.

Something wasn't right in Rachel Berry's life.

She'd wanted to deny it, wanted to put it past her and concentrate on the good, to maintain the distance that now Rachel expected of her.

But the dominance in Quinn, the desire to protect and defend, was screaming to be let out in full force.

Because something wasn't right in Rachel's life.

In fact, something, Quinn was beginning to believe, was very, terribly _wrong_.

The door opened and Rachel came out; Quinn's heart sank to see the same fake, pasted-on smile turned in her direction, but she said nothing, only stood up and went back to the counter to stack the plastic containers.

"I think the kids at the center will really like them," Rachel said brightly, and Quinn just nodded. "Though if they like your grandmother's cookies, I'm in a great deal of trouble. I might not be able to recreate the recipe."

"I can text it to you," Quinn offered, her voice quiet. She washed her hands and the flour off her face quickly, brushing as much of it off her clothes as she could. She avoided meeting Rachel's eyes, because she knew she wouldn't be able to stop the questions if she looked at the girl.

Rachel hesitated, noticing the change in Quinn, probably, before nodding. "That would be nice."

"Got your mace and whistle?" Quinn asked as Rachel picked up the containers, only to set them back down on the counter, moving to the other side to stand near Quinn.

"I always do."

"Good. We need… we need to keep you safe, I—"

She was cut off when she was suddenly met with the full force of Rachel Berry, flinging herself at Quinn in a hug. Quinn's arms flailed for a moment, before she finally wrapped them around Rachel and hugged her close.

She was hugging Rachel.

She was hugging her girl. Her little one. Her…

"Rachel…"

"I'm fine," Rachel said, her voice muffled against Quinn's shoulder. "I'm fine, Quinn."

"You're not fine," Quinn protested, holding her even tighter. "Rach, princess, _please_…"

Rachel shook her head, still hugging Quinn, and in fact pressing herself closer. Almost as if it was the last time they would ever hug…

She drew back, and smiled at Quinn, but it was still… like a show face, Quinn thought. The smile of an actress on a red carpet, or during an interview. It wasn't Rachel.

"I'm fine," she repeated. She picked up the containers of cookies and moved to the door, waiting for Quinn to open it.

She didn't want to open it, she wanted to keep it closed, to hold Rachel close and keep her safe from whatever was happening. To make Rachel tell her everything.

She opened the door.

"Send me that recipe," Rachel said, and her voice trembled only slightly. "I have a feeling I'll need it."

"I'll send you anything you need," Quinn said. "Rachel?"

She stopped, halfway down the hall, and turned.

"I mean it," Quinn affirmed. "I'll give you whatever you need."

Rachel nodded. "I know," she said, hugging the containers to her chest, and walked off.

A few hours later, after Quinn had tried to paint, read a book, take a relaxing bath, get drunk (hard to do when you don't drink much), eat a cookie that she'd forgotten to pack, pet Van (who had gone back to his old ways of clawing at her), and talk to Sam (he was gone to work), the text came.

She dove for the phone, her heart leaping when she saw the notification, and quickly swiped to read.

_I see that my newest playbill has the autograph of Elphaba's stand-in. Her voice is passable, if a little sharp, but of course, no one beats the original._

Two seconds later, another text.

… _Thank you._

Quinn shook her head, the phone clutched to her chest, and, in spite of everything, she laughed.


	16. Hallelujah

**Warnings: Abuse (not depicted)**

* * *

_Diana Kind._

Quinn paused while brushing her teeth and rolled her eyes, texting back quickly.

_Barbra Streisand's mother._

Seconds later, her phone beeped again.

_Impressive, very impressive. But you are not a true Barbra fan yet._

Quinn nearly choked on her toothbrush, and finished up before texting again.

_Did you just paraphrase Star Wars at me?_

_I haven't actually seen it_, was Rachel's response. _But everyone knows that line._

_Maybe we can watch it._

It was five minutes before Quinn's phone sounded again, and she had begun to worry that once again, she had asked for too much.

_I think I'd like that._

Emboldened, Quinn texted back as she stared at the books scattered across her couch. Why did history involve so much _reading_? Oh well, at least she wasn't an English major.

She practically clapped her hands when Rachel texted back that yes, she could meet Quinn that weekend to watch Star Wars – as long as nothing else came up.

They hadn't talked, in the two weeks since they'd met at Quinn's apartment to bake, about the "something else" that had come up, aka Rachel's mother. Quinn still wasn't able to shake the feeling that there was more going on than she had originally thought, but neither Sam or Quinn's other friends were able to offer her much more than sympathetic looks.

So Quinn picked up the phone, and dialed one person she knew could give her pretty sound advice.

Judy Fabray was alarmed to receive a phone call from her daughter in the middle of the week, and it took Quinn twenty minutes of answering questions about her health and her grades before she could finally get to the actual reason for wanting to talk to her mom.

"Maybe her mother is ill," Mrs. Fabray suggested, after listening. "It does sound like she relies on Rachel a lot; maybe she's too sick to take care of herself."

"I don't think that's it," Quinn said. "I can't explain why, but I think it's more than that."

"It doesn't sound as if Rachel's being hurt," her mother said carefully, and Quinn's hand tightened around the phone.

"I'd kill her," she said through clenched teeth; her mother sighed.

"You need to be careful, Quinn."

"You're just saying that because you and dad don't even want me with Rachel."

"Excuse me, young lady?"

There was an edge to her mother's voice, but Quinn was past the point of caring.

"Ever since I was seven years old you and dad haven't been happy that my submissive is meant to be a girl. When Rachel broke the connection you both kept saying that 'maybe I'd find a nice boy.' I mean I'm sorry I'm not the proper little straight girl you guys wanted, but I can't stop trying to protect Rachel just be—"

"That is _enough_, Quinn Charlotte Fabray," Judy snapped, and her daughter clamped her mouth shut, instantly feeling like a little girl once more.

Her mother sighed again, and when she spoke again, sounding old and weary, Quinn immediately felt guilty.

"First and foremost, you are our daughter, and no matter who you are destined to love you will always be our daughter. Yes, your father and I were surprised to see that you were destined to be with a female submissive, but Quinnie, fate is what it is, there's nothing we can do to change that."

"I know…"

"But not everyone accepts that. Clearly _Rachel's_ mother didn't. And your father and I are your parents. We want to protect you. But we couldn't protect you from Rachel breaking the connection." Mrs. Fabray took a deep breath, sniffling, and Quinn felt the tears rush to her own eyes.

"Your father and I don't want to have to go through that again, to see you cry and in so much pain. We don't want _you_ to have to go through that again. So please, forgive me for being your mother and trying to keep my baby girl safe. Even from the one you're destined to love."

"I love you, Mom," Quinn said, wiping her eyes. "You're awesome."

"I know," Mrs. Fabray said, and she and Quinn both laughed. "I do think you're right. I do think there's something going on, but I haven't the slightest idea what it might be. Other than it is definitely related to her mother."

"So what do you think I should do?" Quinn asked, sprawling onto her couch and shoving some of her books onto the floor. One hit Van in the tail and he darted off with a hiss, jumping onto her bed and glaring at her.

She sighed. He'd been even grumpier ever since Rachel had left, the traitor.

"I think you should do exactly what I told you to do, be careful."

"But Rachel needs m—"

"What every submissive needs, Quinn," Mrs. Fabray began gently, and Quinn forced herself to listen. Her mother was speaking from experience, after all.

"Is for someone to be patient. For someone to be patient, and to wait. To teach, to train."

"Train?"

"When you found Rachel, you thought your duty was to train Rachel how to be your submissive, to teach her to do things that your dear old mother would prefer not to know about."

Quinn giggled, and Mrs. Fabray went on.

"But what you really need to teach Rachel is to trust you. You need to train her that when she thinks she has no one else to come to, no one else to lean on, she has you. And if you have to do that by being patient and waiting for her to realize that, then that is what you have to do. I think, in the end, that it'll all be worth it."

"I've already waited five years," Quinn said petulantly.

"This isn't like waiting for a new laptop, Quinn," her mother reprimanded, and she sighed.

"I know. It's just hard."

"Trust me, I know. When you were a little girl you were insufferable at Christmas."

"Mom!"

"Just wait, Quinn. When she's ready, you'll be the only person Rachel runs to."

She couldn't stop imagining it. When would it happen? Would they be at the supermarket and the connection would happen over the fresh vegetables? Or would Quinn hear Rachel's thoughts when it was revealed that Darth Vader was Luke's father? Would Rachel run to her in Central Park?

Or would Rachel show up at her door with a smile and "I love you, Mistress" on her lips?

Quinn wasn't sure which one she was hoping for more, and as the days went by, the scenarios got even more outlandish, even more romantic. She would fall asleep and dream that Rachel was in bed next to her, only to be disappointed when she woke the next morning and the bed was empty except for Van poking her in the nose for food.

But the one bright spot in it all was that she and Rachel were re-connecting. Not mentally; there hadn't been any indication of that at all. But reconnecting they were, by the wonderful innovation known as text messaging. It was slow at first, Rachel would text her good morning usually every other day and that was it. But then there came the day when they must have exchanged over 100 text messages over the course of the day, and Quinn thought her mouth was going to freeze that way, she had smiled so much.

It was like old times, almost. Rachel would tell her what was going on at work, Quinn would surreptitiously text while she was bored in class and Rachel would send her a 3-text lecture on the importance of paying attention in order to get a good education. Quinn had gotten a lot of those lectures from Rachel when she was younger, and nearly cried with joy at receiving another one. It wasn't the same as having their old mental bond back, which didn't seem to want to come back no matter how much Quinn still kept trying, every night.

But it was something, and Quinn would take every little thing she could get.

_Sleepy_, Rachel texted her one night, around 11:30.

It was two days before their movie "date," and Quinn was growing more excited as the minutes ticked by. She turned over in bed and held the phone up as she typed her response.

_Go to bed, silly._

_I have been educating myself on Star Wars, _Rachel texted instead_. Don't worry, I haven't read about the endings. But people certainly do have a love/hate relationship with George Lucas, don't they? I've enjoyed the arguments about Leia being better suited as a submissive than Han. I'll make my judgment after I see the movies._

Quinn laughed and shook her head, fingers dancing across the virtual keyboard.

_Go to bed, Rachel._

Seconds later, the text on her screen caused Quinn to sit bolt upright in bed.

_May I call you_?

_Of course, of course you can_, she answered. Really, what else was she meant to say?

Rachel wanted to talk to her.

Hell would freeze over before she would ever tell Rachel Berry no.

Ten minutes later the phone rang, enough time for Quinn to be up and pacing the floor, worried that Rachel would back out. She dove across her bed on her stomach, seizing up her cellphone.

"Hi," she said breathlessly.

"I-it's not too late?" Rachel said, sounding nervous and quiet. Her voice was so low that Quinn almost couldn't hear her, and her eyes widened with the realization that Rachel was sneaking around to call her.

"It's never too late for you to call me, Rachel. I don't care if it's two in the afternoon or two in the morning."

"Even during finals week?"

Quinn chuckled. "Even during finals week, Rach. Especially during finals week, maybe. I might need you to keep me from going insane. Or keep me awake. Maybe both."

"Maybe I won't call then. Maybe I'll just… come over with coffee. If—if you think you might like that?"

God, she loved that questioning tone in Rachel's voice, and Quinn shivered. As much as Rachel tried to hide it, every now and then her natural submissiveness would come through, and Quinn absolutely craved it. It made things harder, sure, but the little flashes of Rachel's true self that Quinn saw, the more she knew that there was still hope, for both of them.

She just had to wait.

"I'd like that. I think I'd like that very much. Just make it a little weaker than that tar you like to drink."

On the other end of the phone, Rachel huffed sleepily, and Quinn smiled, lying back down against the pillows.

"The French like their coffee that strong, you know."

"Oui, mais je ne suis pas française," Quinn said smoothly.

"… wow," Rachel said, and she grinned.

"What are you going to be up to tomorrow?"

"Nothing really," Rachel said, sounding drowsy and happy, the way that Quinn felt. Rachel's voice was still low, and Quinn wondered where her mother was, if she was out or in the next room.

She tried not to think about what might happen if Shelby walked in while Rachel was talking on the phone to her.

_Be safe, my princess_, she tried to send to Rachel, even if she knew it probably wouldn't work.

"Just working at the diner. Then I think I'll come home and organize my music player. The files have gotten woefully confused, and I can't stand that."

"Sounds like a good plan," Quinn said, fighting a yawn and losing. "I have a test tomorrow and then after that I think I'll be lazy. I might play a video game with Sam or something."

"That sounds like fun," Rachel said, and once again Quinn's heart broke a little. She'd have to ask Sam if it was all right for Rachel to play with them sometime.

"You should go to sleep, you sound very tired."

"That's what I tried to get you to do ten minutes ago," Quinn pointed out. "But someone's a brat and doesn't like to listen."

She bit her lip, worried that that was decidedly the wrong to say, but Rachel giggled a little on the other end and Quinn relaxed.

"If you say so. But I do think we should both sleep now."

"I just don't want to say good night…" Quinn trailed off, shaking her head at herself. She was acting like a lovesick idiot.

Which she was, really.

"So then… we won't say good night. I'll talk to you tomorrow, all right, Quinn?"

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, princess." _Shit._ She'd told herself she wouldn't call Rachel that anymore.

"Sorry, Rach, it's… habit."

"I know," Rachel whispered. "It's okay."

She had just started to drift off to sleep when Quinn's cell phone signaled yet another text, and she grumbled, but flipped it open anyway to see a message from Rachel.

_You can call me princess._

It had her on cloud nine for the rest of the week, and it felt as if time flew by while she began to ready preparations for their little movie not-date. It was getting harder not to call them dates, but she knew that it would freak Rachel out if she started referring to them as that. And they were already in such a delicate position that the last thing Quinn wanted to do was scare her again. It was enough, really, that Rachel was arranging their little meetings, that Quinn didn't even have to ask for her time and her texts.

Maybe, as Quinn's mother had suggested, Rachel finally trusted her.

That theory came crashing down with another text, the day of their movie not-date.

_I can't come. I have to work late. I'm sorry._

Quinn actually sat down, the pain was so swift and deep. The tears coursed down her cheeks and she told herself she was behaving like an idiot, but she couldn't help it. She hadn't known any disappointment like that, other than when Rachel had first broken the connection and Quinn had tried with all of her might to get it back. Each day that had gone by the pain had gotten a little less, maybe even a little easier, but it was still there.

Only to come rushing back when Rachel bailed.

But having to work late wasn't really bailing, Quinn told herself. Burt knew that Rachel was seeing Quinn again; he'd been a good friend to Rachel and had told her exactly the same things that Quinn's friends were saying to her: be careful. But work was work, and if Burt needed her, Quinn knew that when push came to shove, Rachel wouldn't abandon her job.

And it was just one night, Quinn also said to herself. One broken not-date didn't mean that Rachel was never going to speak to her again. Even if that was what she was afraid of. Every interaction with Rachel, every time Quinn said goodbye or good night or talk to you tomorrow, she was afraid that that was the last time she would see Rachel Berry.

But what had she done when Rachel had broken the connection? She'd cried, she'd wailed, she'd raged, she'd sworn that she'd never, ever go looking for Rachel because Rachel Berry didn't deserve it, not after what she'd done.

And she'd hopped the first flight to New York the night she graduated.

Her mother and everyone else told her to wait for Rachel to come to her. And she'd done that, so far. Taken the baby steps and moved as cautiously as she thought Rachel would need. And fate had done its part bringing Rachel to her, but it was just a late night at the diner, and it couldn't be considered stalking if all she did was visit a friend for talk and coffee.

So Rachel couldn't come to her.

Well, Quinn reasoned, they were close now. Or, closer than they had been. And she wouldn't be showing up at the diner like she had that first time, with designs on taking Rachel back to her apartment and claiming her. There was no stopping her from going to the diner just as a friend. To have a coffee or a milkshake and just… just chat. She might even help Rachel clean up, if Burt would let her. Two people cleaning would get it done faster, and that meant they could sit and talk for a little while.

She could do that, Quinn resolved.

Rachel might like it. She might want some company, someone to talk to as she worked.

Quinn put on her coat and headed towards the diner.

New York was never quiet, but there seemed to be something different about this night. The people seemed to move slower, seemed to be mere shadows of themselves as Quinn passed by. She thought she saw a green ribbon hanging on a tree branch, but when she looked again it wasn't there. The wind was cold, chilling her to the bone and she pulled her coat tighter around herself. She thought about taking out her iPod, about listening to that playlist she had designed especially for Rachel.

Her.

Quinn decided against it, and turned down the sidewalk that would lead her, once again, to Rachel.

She knew this road by heart; she'd walked it so many times. She could find her way to Rachel with her eyes closed, Quinn thought, and then shook her head. She wasn't a poet; she should tell Rachel, because it would probably get a good laugh out of the other woman. It was her laugh that Quinn loved to hear the most, that she wanted to hear the most.

Well, no. More than anything, she wanted to hear Rachel sing.

She _needed_ to hear Rachel sing, Quinn knew. Needed to hear it to know that Rachel was still _there_. Sure, there were little flashes of it here and there, but there had to be more, just below the surface. She needed to hear Rachel sing, and she needed to know why she stopped, and she needed Rachel to know that it was okay _to keep singing_.

And perhaps the fates were working overtime, because as Quinn approached the diner, warm from her walk and the anticipation of Rachel's (hopefully) happiness at seeing her there, she could hear a voice.

A voice, loud and rich and full, coming from the diner.

Rachel.

Singing.

It was a melody that Quinn thought she recognized, but through the glass of the diner she couldn't tell exactly what it was. But she stopped and looked, a smile on her face as she watched Rachel wipe off tables and sing. The diner was empty; apparently even Burt had gone home and it was left to Rachel to clean up. So she was alone, just the tables and a dishrag, and so she sang, with no one there to hear.

Slowly and carefully Quinn inched the door open, the words to the song becoming slowly louder.

"… you let me know what's real and going on below, but now you never show it to me, do you?"

A few more inches, and she was inside, and Rachel's voice soared as if it were reaching the rafters of some fancy Broadway hall. The seats and booths were her adoring audience, the red and white checkered floor her stage. The streetlights shining in the window were her spotlight.

Her tears were her accompaniment, and Quinn froze in the doorway.

"And remember when I moved in you, the holy dove was moving too? And every breath we drew was 'hallelujah'…."

She was crying. Hard. Barely able to get the words out, and still her voice was the most beautiful thing Quinn had ever heard. She had imagined what it would be like to hear Rachel for the first time; she had always pictured herself sitting in the front row while Rachel was the star in a musical.

Or accepting her first Tony.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah. Hallelujah, hallelujah…"

Now she was rooted to the spot in a diner doorway, watching as her princess sobbed and struggled to pry a ketchup stain from a booth.

What could she do? Should she say something? It seemed stupid, but it felt almost as if Quinn was in church, and to speak would interrupt something holy. She would interrupt Rachel, the real Rachel.

The Rachel that was broken, the Rachel that was a shade of her former self. The Rachel that was lost, alone, trying to find absolution in a song.

"I did my best, it wasn't much. I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch. I've told the truth, I didn't come here to fool you..."

She was singing to _her_, Quinn realized, and she nearly fell against the door, her hand rising to cup her mouth to shield her own tears.

Elle had told her it would've hurt Rachel. Elle had told her that to break the connection would have been agonizing to Rachel, but for whatever reason, Rachel would have had no outlet for it. Something was happening, something that wouldn't let Rachel grieve, to curl inside her own pain and mourn for what she had lost, by her own hand.

But here, in this, in her voice and in this song, Rachel was saying a kind of _kaddish_ for her lost love. For her heart.

For Quinn.

"And even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but 'hallelujah'…."

Rachel had stopped cleaning now, leaning against the table with both hands, arms shaking with the force of her sobs. But she was lost, Quinn saw, lost in the song and the melody, living and breathing the music that had been kept from her for so long.

She'd kept singing, Quinn realized. In secret, at the diner or at the community center. On the street or in the park, wherever she could. Wherever she would be away from the person who seemed to want to stifle that gorgeous voice.

Rachel was still there. The one thing that was her true nature besides her submissiveness, her love for music and singing, was still there. It elated Quinn, destroyed Quinn; she had to hold to the door handle to bear herself up as she listened to Rachel finish giving voice to her own heartbreak.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah..."

She shouldn't be here, Quinn thought to herself. This was something so intensely private, something that was completely Rachel's. That no matter what they had shared in their five years "together," she couldn't even touch. Rachel's pain was her own, and it wouldn't help her for Quinn to invade that space, especially out of her own need.

But this was Rachel. This was the girl that Quinn had built her life around for so long, and even though she couldn't hear Rachel's cries in the night anymore, the feelings hadn't ever left her. The instinct to protect, to help, to comfort.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah…"

She took a step backward. Rachel's face was streaked with tears, and Quinn's heart clenched. How many times had she sung alone and cried here? Would she have done it that night that Quinn found her, once Burt had left and all the patrons had gone home to their Masters and Mistresses, to the submissives waiting adoringly in the bedroom or the foyer?

Would she walk home to the house where she wasn't allowed to sing, every word echoing loud and clear in a moonlit night?

Did she sing, after she had seen Quinn, or was she too scared to even find a melody?

"Hallelujah, hallelujah… hallelujah, hall—"

Quinn left the diner, as quickly and as quietly as she could. She probably got a few strange looks on her way back to the apartment, but she let the tears fall, not caring.

It didn't take long for Quinn to cry herself to sleep, only to be awakened by a knock on the door.

The clock on the bedside table read 1 a.m.

She rubbed her eyes and padded blearily to the door, swinging it open until it was stopped by the chain locking it.

"Quinn?"

She shut the door and unlocked it quickly.

"Rachel? What are you doing here, are you okay?" She blinked to clear her eyes, and Quinn's heart dropped.

The handprint was red and angry on Rachel's right cheek.

"Rachel… princess, what—"

Rachel looked down at the floor, then back at Quinn, fresh tears streaking down her face.

"I need a place to stay tonight… Please, Quinn. Please."


	17. Once Upon a Time

She is 6 years old, and she has never heard anything like it.

She is wearing her favorite sweater with the puppy dog on the front, eating her favorite lunch of peanut butter and jelly and celery sticks, and she is sitting in the cafeteria – alone at the end of one of the tables.

But the boy with the glasses is loud, and she listens curiously as he talks about how his mommy can hear his daddy in her mind, and how much they love each other. They're best friends, and his daddy wouldn't ever want anyone else but his mom. It's like a fairytale, he says to his friends, who are rolling their eyes and making gagging noises because they're older, and they're boys, and that's what they _do_. And then one of them catches her looking and sneers at her before stealing her juice and pouring it over the remainder of her lunch.

She closes her eyes as everyone laughs, and she thinks of music and best friends.

She doesn't tell Mommy when she gets home, but goes straight to her room and sits on her bed, in her little pink room with stars on the ceiling, and too many stuffed animals. She closes her eyes and thinks, as hard as she can.

At first there's nothing, but then it feels as if a there's a tiny wisp, a ribbon of wind, and she realizes she's not alone. She takes a deep breath.

_Hi._

She can feel it in an instant, and she doesn't lose concentration, but she tenses. Maybe she's done something wrong, because she feels… fear.

But she thinks of best friends, and tries again.

_Hello! Are you there? Will you… talk to me? _

It would be nice, to have someone to talk to.

She hadn't meant to scare her, she didn't mean to do anything wrong, and she feels sick to her tummy because she can't get it out of her mind, and all she can feel is… the girl.

The girl who is scared of her.

She digs out her coloring book – the one that she got at school and keeps under her bed because it has knights in shining armor and Mommy doesn't like fairy tales. Her tongue is between her teeth as she colors and imagines best friends and singing, as she hums a soft song and lets the melody comfort.

She feels the other girl rather than sees her, and Rachel smiles.

_Hello. I'm sorry I scared you._

Her smile widens when the girl answers her, quiet and hesitant but hopeful.

Now she can see curious hazel eyes and golden blonde hair, and she knows everything has changed.

Rachel looks down at the half-colored picture of a knight and his lady, and then glances up.

_Is this happily ever after? _


	18. Okay

**Warning: Abuse**

* * *

She didn't answer, and in that split second hesitation, Rachel started to think that maybe she'd just made a horrible mistake.

After all this time, after everything she'd done, surely there was no way—

"Rachel, of course, come in."

She couldn't take the look on Quinn's face, that expression of utter heartbreak that seemed to be the norm every time Quinn's hazel eyes met Rachel's brown ones. She didn't want to have that look focused on her all night, and so once again, as she'd done five hundred times on the walk from her house to Quinn's apartment, she thought about just getting a hotel room. But she was tired and she'd cried too much, and her cheek stung, and so Rachel simply nodded and let Quinn close the door shut behind them.

"You're hurt."

Rachel shook her head. "I'm fine." Maybe if she said it enough times, Quinn would believe it.

"Rachel, what happened?"

Maybe not.

She was wearing sweats, Rachel noted. Grey sweatpants with NYU emblazoned on the side, and a simple black tee-shirt. Her hair was down, in a mess over her face, giving her the appearance of someone even younger than what she was. It was cute, she thought, but now wasn't the time to think of that.

Not when it felt as if her face was on fire.

"May I have some water?" Rachel asked politely.

"Oh, um, yeah," Quinn said, and gestured towards her couch. "Sit down, Rach, I'll get it."

She smiled gratefully at Quinn, taking the time to look around the apartment while the other young woman was occupied with a pitcher of water she pulled from the refrigerator, and a glass she took from one of the cabinets.

Rachel could feel Quinn's eyes on her, but she tried not to think about it as she focused on the unmade bed, the books thrown on the floor next to the couch, the cat with part of his ear missing as he padded across the floor and jumped up next to her. The apartment seemed different, she thought to herself. It was nice being there during the day, when they had their baking… it wasn't a date, she reminded herself. But there was a different atmosphere, one of stilted politeness even as they were growing steadily more familiar with each other. Here, sitting in the half-darkness on Quinn's couch in the middle of the night… it was actually more comforting, and more unnerving at the same time. There was the bed with its mountain of pillows, a bowl and spoon sat on the coffee table, a paint-stained cloth thrown haphazardly over one of the chairs… Here, Rachel thought, was a glimpse of how Quinn actually lived, and she found herself wanting to ask a million questions.

What do you watch on television now? What music do you like? Do you only listen to Broadway? (Rachel thought she'd be both impressed and alarmed if the answer to that was yes.) What's your favorite movie? Who's your favorite actor? What books do you like to read?

Did you really miss me as much as you said?

Soon enough the glass was in her hands and Van was in her lap. Rachel smiled, one shaking hand detaching from the glass to pet him. "You've gotten a bit of a bad reputation," she said to him softly. "I think your mommy might have been wrong about you."

"Oh, I'm definitely not wrong about him," Quinn said, sounding amused even as she kept staring worriedly at Rachel. "I just think you've bewitched him."

"Maybe so." She waved her fingers in front of his face and laughed when he batted at them. She looked at Quinn.

"I won't be any trouble, I promise."

"I'm not worried about that," Quinn said. "I'm worried about you. What happened?"

She shrugged. "It's nothing, really. I'm fine."

She wasn't fine, and it was everything. She wondered if the way her face felt was the same as Elphaba's skin felt whenever it came in contact with water. Bookverse Elphaba, she reminded herself, since it had only been a rumor in the musical… Rachel took a long drink and tried to smile at Quinn.

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"Rachel, what _happened_?"

"I can't do this, Quinn," Rachel said, and sighed when her voice cracked. Honestly, breaking the note on stage would be less horrifying than breaking in front of _Quinn_. "I can't talk about it, not tonight."

"But will you? Not tonight, but—"

"Maybe. I don't know."

They fell into silence again, interrupted only by Van purring as he nuzzled into Quinn, having deserted Rachel for her moments earlier. Now Rachel understood Quinn's jealousy, but she smiled, watching as the other woman scratched lovingly behind his ears.

"Does it hurt?" Quinn asked suddenly, and Rachel jumped a little. "Sorry."

"Not physically, no."

She tried not to replay the words that had happened before the slap, the words that had come after. She drained the water glass and sat it on the coffee table, then thought better of it and stood up.

"I'll just… put this in the sink." She may not be the best company at the moment, but she wasn't going to be rude company either.

Just as quickly as she had stood up though, she was met with Quinn blocking her way to the "kitchen," her hand grasping the glass, her fingers curled lightly around Rachel's.

"You sit down," Quinn said, and Rachel shivered a little at the tone in Quinn's voice. Tender, but focused. She was commanding without even meaning to, without even realizing it. A person's nature never truly leaves them, Burt had told Rachel once. He'd thought he'd been talking to her about singing.

"I can put the glass away. Do you need anything else? Something to eat maybe? Some toast? Anything?"

She'd leaned into Quinn before she had a chance to think about it, before the doubts had time to creep into her head and make her think that really, maybe getting a hug wasn't the best idea. But with the cup between them, fingers intertwined over cool glass, Rachel rested her head just at Quinn's collarbone, and Quinn wrapped her free arm around Rachel's waist.

"Talk to me?" Quinn begged in a whisper.

"I can't." She'd shuffled closer. "Not tonight, not yet."

She'd never thought it would be like this. She tried never to think about it at all, but when she did, Rachel never imagined it would be like this. She never imagined being in Quinn's arms, standing in the middle of her living room, in the dead of night, with a handprint on her face and the sudden realization that she hadn't even brought any clothes with her.

"I didn't bring anything," she confessed aloud, laughing a bit through the tears that were beginning to flow down her face again. "I remembered to put on shoes, and I have my credit card but…"

"Princess, please tell me what happened."

_Princess._ Quinn's arm was steady and firm against her back, her fingers still tucked protectively against Rachel's as they both held onto the glass. How long had it been, since she'd been anyone's princess?

Five years, Rachel guessed. Too long, and not long enough.

"Not tonight," Rachel said with a shake to her head. "In the morning, after I've had some sleep… maybe. But not tonight."

"All right," Quinn said, and Rachel let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She'd hoped Quinn wouldn't push, and bless her, she hadn't.

"Just let me make up the bed," she was saying, and Rachel felt the slight twinge of disappointment as Quinn pulled away and offered her a forced, cheerful sort of half-smile. "How many pillows do you like?"

"I don't… need many, two?" Rachel answered. "Really, just give me a sheet to put on the couch and a blanket, and I'll be fine."

"The couch?" Quinn said in confusion, and then shook her head. "You're not sleeping on the couch, Rachel. You can take the bed."

"What? No. I'm not going to take your bed."

Quinn stopped and turned back to Rachel, looking almost comical with an armful of pillows and sheets. "You're not sleeping on the couch, Rachel."

"You know, if I had paper and several pens I could make a well-reasoned chart as to why I refuse to take your bed."

"And I would rip the chart up and toss it in Van's litter box."

As if on cue, Van hissed from his position in the corner of the room. "Hush you, before I throw a pillow at you," Quinn said affectionately, then dumped the pillows and blankets on the couch before turning to Rachel.

"I want you to sleep in the bed," she said gently. "I couldn't live with myself if I thought you were uncomfortable."

"You think I could live with it if you weren't comfortable?" Rachel said, and then bit her lip. What was it about Quinn that had her revealing just how much was still there? She'd fought so hard to break away, and she had. But it seemed that none of it really mattered, because there were those little moments of care that kept creeping in. She wished she could just go to bed.

Go to bed, then go to work tomorrow and talk to Burt about… maybe an apartment. Or going back… home.

She didn't even have her uniform.

"I guess I'll just go to sleep now," Rachel said awkwardly.

She could feel herself blushing, under Quinn's intense gaze, before she shook her head.

"You can't sleep in jeans, Rach."

"I didn't bring anything with me," Rachel said again. "I'll be fine."

"Do you want to take a bath?" Quinn asked. "Or a shower? It might make you feel better, and you can wear something of mine."

"I just want to sleep," Rachel said tiredly, and Quinn nodded, swallowing hard and going to a small chest of drawers against one wall off to the side of her bed.

"Here," she said, standing up and crossing the floor again to hand Rachel the clothes.

Rachel glanced down at the tee-shirt and boxer shorts, quirking an eyebrow at Quinn, who grinned sheepishly.

"You're kind of short," she said, and Rachel snorted. "I just think this would fit better, you'll be comfortable until we can go somewhere and get you clothes."

We. Rachel smiled a little. She wondered if she'd be able to go get her clothes, or if she'd have to dip into her meager little savings to buy an entire new wardrobe. The panic of the short walk to Quinn's apartment started to set in again, but she took a deep breath and tried to still her nerves.

"Rachel?"

"Thank you," she said, and looked to the bathroom. "I'll just go change."

Moments later, she came out clad only in a pair of purple and pink striped boxer shorts, and Quinn's "I Love Oz" Wicked shirt. Quinn was perched just as nervously as Rachel felt, on the edge of the couch, and she jumped up when she saw Rachel.

"It smells like you," Rachel blurted out, then blushed furiously.

Of all the dumb things to say…

"Yeah?" Quinn smiled, her eyes lighting up.

Maybe not so dumb.

"Yes," Rachel nodded. It reminded her of the hug, moments ago.

"Are you sure you won't let me sleep on the couch?" she tried again.

"More than sure," Quinn nodded. "Will you need anything tonight? I keep a small light on in the kitchen, so if you do, you can get up and get whatever."

"I think I'll be fine." Rachel hesitated before going over to the bed. "Thank you, Quinn."

"You're welcome, princess. Get some rest."

She slept fitfully, on her left side. Words and images kept invading her sleep, things that she would rather forget and things she would be desperate to remember come morning. But come morning, she knew they would slide away from her like scents on a breeze, and all that would be left would be the idea of it. The ideas used to be enough, in those days after she was 14 years old.

These days, not so much.

She got up at some point to retrieve another glass of water; the light was just starting to come into the window and apparently the sound of the refrigerator opening was enough for Quinn to sit bolt upright on the couch, her hair rumpled and once again falling into her face.

"Rach?"

"I was just getting water, go back to sleep," Rachel whispered, and made her way back to the bed. It brought tears to her eyes again; it seemed that Quinn wasn't sleeping very much either.

Still, she fell back onto the couch with a quiet "Ow," and Rachel giggled quietly before slipping back under the covers.

Quinn's bed was soft, and warm. And it smelled like her.

Hours later Rachel woke up to the sound of dishes rattling, and she sat up and wiped her eyes to see Quinn standing at the counter, muttering to herself and surrounded by pots and pans. Catching sight of Rachel staring at her, she smiled brightly.

"Hello, sleepyhead," she said, her eyes still clouded with a little concern. "Sleep well?"

"I did," Rachel said, even though she was pretty sure Quinn could see through the lie. As always. "What are you doing?"

"Breakfast," Quinn announced, then furrowed her brow. "Well, I'm trying, anyway. I was going to make an omelet but the eggs were expired, and then I figured toast was a good bet, but I couldn't offer just toast, so now there's toast and sausage and I _think_ I have cereal in here somewhere. I don't cook very much. Or eat breakfast usually, for that matter."

"No breakfast? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Quinn. It sets us up for optimal performance at whatever tasks we may need to accomplish, whether at work or at school or just… in anything. We have to get you eating breakfast."

We.

"You can start by having breakfast with me, then," Quinn said. "A good breakfast with even better company…"

Rachel climbed out of the bed and walked over to perch on one of the stools sat at the counter. "You shouldn't go through all of this trouble," she said quietly. She smiled a little sadly when Quinn reached out the grasp her hand, squeezing it for the merest of seconds before letting go.

"But I will," the other girl said, and after a few minutes had toast and sausage plated up and sat in front of Rachel. "Orange juice?"

"Coffee?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Lucky for you I actually have some. I usually keep it on hand for finals. It probably won't be what you like but—"

"But it'll be enough," Rachel finished. "Really, thank you."

After a moment the apartment was full of the scent of strong coffee, and Rachel sighed deeply, taking it in. She didn't feel like eating but Quinn kept watching her intently, and so she picked at her food hopefully enough to make her stop worrying. Quinn handed her the coffee and Rachel tried not to drink it all in one gulp, knowing that the idea of liquid energy was a false one, but still wondering if liquid bravery was a possibility.

"Rach…"

"She knows."

Rachel froze; she hadn't intended for that to come out as forcefully as it had. She watched as Quinn's eyes widened, and she shut her own, briefly.

_She's in New York? Rachel Barbra Berry, are you out of your mind?_

"Who knows… what?"

It was out, already, there was no sense in denying it, but Rachel still couldn't look at Quinn. She folded her hands around the coffee cup and held onto it for its warmth, and remembered Quinn's fingers lingering over hers last night.

"My mother. She knows you're in New York."

"Oh."

"We had an argument." Rachel laughed, a dry sound lacking any humor. "But of course we did, I always knew…" No, she couldn't say that. She couldn't let Quinn know that she had hoped for—

For what, exactly?

"We had an argument."

"About what, princess?"

Would you stop saying that? Rachel wanted to shout, but she knew it'd be yet another lie. She thought of the little silver crown, sat on the table by her bed.

"About me. About you. You'll notice I no longer have my phone."

"You walked over here without a phone?!" Quinn's voice was panicked, and Rachel gave her a wry look.

"That's what you're worried about, rather than the fact that I walked over here in the dead of night with nothing but my credit card? I didn't even have my mace or my whistle."

"Of _course_ I'm worried about that but I wasn't sure I was allowed to!" Rachel flinched, and Quinn sighed.

In seconds Rachel felt the warmth, not of the coffee cup, but of Quinn's fingers once again caressing hers.

"I'm sorry."

"I deserve it."

She deserved that, and more.

"No, Rach, you don't. You really don't."

"I'd forgotten my phone at the house, when I went to work. I was late getting home because it took me forever to clean up." A flicker of pain crossed over Quinn's features and Rachel made a mental note to ask her about it later.

"And Mom… got worried, I suppose. She found my phone and…"

_You can call me princess._

"Oh, Rach. I'm so sorry, I should have been more careful."

Rachel shrugged, toying with the hem of the I Love Oz shirt. "It's not the first time she's gone through my phone, nor, I suspect, would it have been the last."

She began to tell it all, then, of how Shelby Berry had been waiting for her daughter in the living room when she'd finally come home from work. She didn't tell Quinn of how she'd wiped the tables and cried, thinking of her. Thinking of her hazel eyes and her soft smile and the gentle way that she'd hugged Rachel.

Rachel had tried not to think about Quinn, after that day when she was 14 years old, but when she did, every day since, she thought of what it would be like, to be held in her arms.

She didn't tell Quinn about how she'd sung, one of her favorite songs about heartbreak and love and hope regardless of what life had thrown at you. The song that had been on her iPod, tucked in a playlist labeled simply Q.

She thought of the Q, burned onto her skin with a black sharpie, next to the phone number that had proved to be her downfall.

She told Quinn about her mother standing up from the couch, fury blazed on her face, and how Rachel had sighed, knowing that it was going to be one of those nights. Rachel spoke haltingly of the fear because this wasn't one of those nights, this was something completely different, and Quinn's hand pulled hers away from the coffee cup and entwined their fingers together, anchoring solidly and protectively.

There were words like _how dare you_ and _why would you do this_ and _don't you know she's only going to hurt you_ and _I can't believe you'd do this to me_ and then, finally, the words that had been her undoing.

"I'm tired of being sad just to keep you happy!"

The slap had been swift, had been painful, had been so utterly unexpected and such a _first_ that it had left them both stunned, Shelby with her eyes wide and apologetic, and Rachel with her hand on her face feeling completely lost.

She didn't tell the blonde woman holding tightly to her that Rachel's first thought had been _go to Quinn_.

She wasn't sure if it would make Quinn feel triumphant or just sad; it left Rachel feeling empty.

She'd lost. After all this time, after all she had tried to do, she knew the truth.

She'd lost.

"She begged me to stay," Rachel said. "She begged me to stay, said she was sorry, said that she'd get me a new phone with a different number and we could forget it ever happened."

Quinn snorted, and Rachel sniffed.

"I left and came here. I'm surprised she hasn't called you."

"Rachel, it's her, isn't it?"

Rachel looked up, not understanding. "What?"

"She's why. She's why you…"

Rachel shook her head. "I can't talk about that," she whispered.

"We _need_ to talk about it." Quinn was insistent, and that's when Rachel noticed that Quinn's eyes were red-rimmed.

She'd been crying, and the panic, the need to fix it, in Rachel was natural and instantaneous.

She pushed it aside.

"I _can't_, Quinn," she said stubbornly. "And I won't. Not now, maybe not ever. But definitely not now."

She knew Quinn wanted to push, could see it in her eyes and in the way the hand not occupied with Rachel's tightened against the counter, but Quinn just nodded.

"She hit you."

"Yes."

"Has she hit you bef—"

"No, never."

"You're telling me the truth, right? That's the first time?"

Rachel sighed. "My mother loves me, she wouldn't do that."

"Rach—"

"That was the first time, Quinn. We argued, I smarted off, she slapped me."

"I'm sorry, princess."

"I am too," Rachel shrugged. She suddenly felt tired again.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Rachel admitted, and she stood up, beginning to pace the apartment in Quinn's boxer shorts and a tee-shirt that clung to her and smelled of flowers and a little spice. She liked it, Rachel decided.

She loved it.

It was Quinn.

"I might stay with Burt for a few days, let it blow over. He's got a room over the shop that he uses for storage but it has a bathroom, so maybe I can stay there till things calm down."

"You can't go back to your mother," Quinn said resolutely, and Rachel turned to her with another shrug before she resumed pacing.

"I don't have anywhere else to go, Quinn."

"You could stay with me."

Rachel stopped her pacing and stared at Quinn, not sure if she'd heard correctly.

"What?"

Quinn came from around the counter and stood in front of Rachel, a few feet away but close enough that Rachel could see the determined line of her jaw, the deep concern in her eyes.

After all this time, Quinn Fabray still worried about her?

"You can't go back there," Quinn was saying. "I know you said it was the first time but Rachel… you're not happy. You're not happy, princess, and I know you're not."

"I know."

"So… stay with me, just for a few days. We can go and get you some clothes, things you would need for maybe a week. You can rest and relax and I'll go to my classes, and after a little while, you can decide what it is you want to do. No strings attached, Rach, I promise."

No strings attached, Rachel repeated to herself. I do suppose I made sure of that. No strings attached, no ribbon connecting anyone's heart and mine…

She let herself wonder about what it would be like to stay a few days with Quinn. A few days, a week. Just resting. Maybe Burt would let her take a few days off; she imagined he would if she told him what had happened, after she talked him down from trying to kill anyone.

She could sleep. She could sleep, and she could eat whatever she wanted, maybe bake a cake and eat the whole thing.

Or share it with Quinn.

She could sleep and she could eat and she could… she could sing. Maybe she could sing along to Hallmark commercials or in the shower, or along with nearly every song in that playlist labeled Q.

She could pet Van and maybe, just maybe, Quinn's fingers could be in hers and she could breathe.

She could breathe, and she wouldn't have to worry about what time to be home and what time to call if she was going to be late and singing quietly in the dark of her bedroom as she tried to sleep with the merest idea of a memory tickling the back of her mind.

She took a deep breath.

"Okay," Rachel agreed. "Okay."


	19. Sleeping Beauty

"_Who's your favorite Disney princess?"_

"_Mulan."_

"_She's technically not a princess, but all right."_

"_What? She's totally a princess."_

Rachel smiles indulgently at the tone of insult, and leans forward a little, stuffed animal clutched in her arms.

She is eleven years old, and it just after midnight on a school night, but it doesn't matter. Quinn is soft and heavy and sleepy in her mind, also curled up cross-legged on her own bed. She's holding her own stuffed animal, one that she says reminds her of Rachel. It's a small teddy bear, no more than seven inches tall, and it's wearing a light blue dress with a crown atop its head.

"_You're going to pout, aren't you?" _she asks Quinn.

"_Yes, yes I am."_

Rachel sticks her lower lip out and is rewarded seconds later with what she feels is a gentle squeeze on her hand. She wonders if, when they are old enough, Quinn's hand actually in hers will feel the same.

She hopes so.

"_I can't stand it when you look like that, smile for me. Good," _Quinn says when Rachel does, then tilts her head to the side.

"_Your favorite Disney princess?"_

"_Aurora."_

"_Sleeping Beauty?"_

"_'I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream,'" _Rachel quotes, still smiling.

"_This isn't a dream._"

"_Sometimes it feels like it_," Rachel says wistfully, but she doesn't give voice to why. A princess asleep, waiting to be given back to life by a prince.

"_Favorite musical?"_

"_Wicked, you know that."_

"_I know, but I love to feel your eyes light up when you talk about it."_

"_Favorite book?"_

"_Harry Potter."_

"_Mom won't let m- I haven't read those."_

"_You will."_

And on and on it goes until the light begins to peek its rays through the sky and Rachel feels guilty because she knows Quinn loves her sleep far more than Rachel does. But Quinn tells her to hush with That Look, and answers every single question Rachel continues to throw at her as they're getting dressed for school.

Favorite song, favorite magazine, favorite food. She's asked them before, countless times, but Rachel Berry is insatiable for everything she can know about Quinn Fabray.

"_You should ask me my favorite princess."_

"_Favorite princess?" _Rachel says confused as she snaps the clasps on her rolling case and gets ready to walk out the door to school._ "I already asked you that."_

"_Yes, you asked my favorite _Disney_ princess."_

"_Oh. Well... favorite princess?"_

"_You."_

The warm feeling in Rachel's belly stays with her the rest of the day, even as she has to struggle to stay awake in math class.


	20. Something Resembling Love

"Hello. Is my daughter Rachel he-"

"No."

Quinn closed the door and turned around; Rachel just looked at her.

An unintended consequence of a confiscated phone was Shelby Berry having not just Quinn's address, but clear directions on how to get there.

Quinn reopened the door.

"She's fine," Rachel heard her say, even though she knew Quinn was keeping her voice low to shield her. "She's fine, and she'll talk to you if and when she's ready."

_If._

The mournful tone in her mother's voice almost had Rachel rushing for the door.

"Would you just... tell her that I love her?"

"I will."

Ice dripped from Quinn's tone, but her face was tender when she shut the door and turned to Rachel, the words on her lips, but Rachel shook her head.

"I heard."

"You weren't supposed to."

Rachel smiled wryly. "I have impeccable hearing in addition to impeccable pitch."

Quinn smiled and moved to sit on the couch next to Rachel, too close and too warm in her NYU sweats and tee-shirt. It was old habit, Rachel told herself, that she drew away just a little - but she also felt a little awkwardly underdressed, especially considering that it was Quinn's boxers she wore. Quinn's shirt.

That smelled like her.

"So you do," Quinn said, and now she sounded light and easy but Rachel had seen the wince, a fleeting reaction to what she had thought was a subtle raising of that wall between them.

It had come down. Not much, a little. But now it seemed back again.

"Are you all right?"

"I suppose so."

"You could have talked to her, if you wanted. I'd never keep you from her." As if to illustrate her words, Quinn held out Rachel's phone, that Shelby must have handed her in the brief second before Quinn had shut the door the last time.

Rachel took it, turning it over in her hands, then set it down on the coffee table in front of them.

"I know."

There was a moment of awkward silence, probably appropriate since it was merely a few hours after Rachel had woken up in Quinn's apartment. In Quinn's bed. The remnants of breakfast still lay scattered on the countertop, and Rachel smiled a little again, remembering how flustered Quinn had seemed. Almost like she was trying to plan the perfect breakfast. Just to take care of her.

It was so domestic, she thought. They'd sat and ate breakfast together, but they hadn't talked much after Rachel had told Quinn all that Shelby knew, and most of the things that had happened between them. Most.

Afterwards, things had fallen into a kind of comfortable silence. It was almost, Rachel thought, like things had been before she'd broke- before the connection had been broken. It had been so easy to just sit there with Quinn, at the counter in the "kitchen" of her little one-room apartment, with no words but just a kind of... contentment. So easy that Rachel had wondered, for a split second, if a connection had ever even been necessary.

And now Quinn was looking at her in the same way that seemed to be usual for Quinn: worriedly, hazel eyes scanning over Rachel's face searching for any sign of sadness or discomfort. She never needed to look far, Rachel figured, which is why a sudden bright smile crossed over Quinn's face.

"So, what do you want to do today? Shopping? I know you said you needed clothes."

Ordinarily, shopping would give Rachel a thrill. If it was for new music, or a new sweater. But today, shopping was the last thing on her mind. She glanced around Quinn's apartment, trying to find some excuse, but the words were failing her. She still wasn't used to not being able to say—or sing—how she felt, especially in front of Quinn. For 8 years she hadn't had to use words, and now... words were all she had, and they were infuriatingly elusive.

Rachel's eyes fell on Van, then the still-messy kitchen, the painting of the blond boy that had hung in the gallery not so long ago, the books on the coffee table... The books.

"Class!" Rachel said suddenly, and felt guilty when Quinn jumped a little. "You have class."

"What?" Quinn said, looking confused. "No. I mean yes, I do have class, but I'm not going, not today."

"Why not?" Rachel knew the answer already, and hated herself for the tiny glimmer of something resembling love that it gave her.

"Because of you," Quinn answered simply. "And I don't mean that you're a burden keeping me from my every day life, because that's not it. I mean... You might need me, and I want to be here if you do."

"You can't skip your studies because of me," Rachel protested, nervously tugging at the bottom of the I Love Oz shirt.

"It's one day, princess," Quinn said. "I can get the notes off Elle and Jamie, and I can make the test up later on in the week."

"Test?" Rachel stood up then, shaking her head with her hands on her hips. "No. No, no, Quinn Charlotte Fabray, you-"

"You remembered my middle name."

Rachel huffed, ignoring Quinn's sly grin and trying to play off how much it rattled her that yes, she remembered Quinn's middle name. "That is not the point. The point is I am not going to be the cause of you neglecting your studies and doing poorly on an exam, or, worse, getting a zero because your teacher doesn't accept what will no doubt be a very creative excuse as to why you couldn't take it on the expected day."

Quinn opened her mouth to speak, but Rachel wasn't about to give her the opportunity. "You're going to your classes today. Please," she continued, when it looked like Quinn was still stubbornly going to protest. "Y-you said that you'd give me whatever I need."

"I will. I'll try."

Rachel nodded and took a deep breath. "What I need is to just... be alone. For a little while. This is..." She gestured weakly around the room, and at Quinn. "A lot to take in. You can go to your classes and when you come back I'll- I'll cook," she decided. "Because I know you probably don't eat right when you're between classes. If at all."

One look at Quinn's sheepish face told Rachel that she had called that exactly right. "So I'll cook when you get home. If- if you want. If you'd like that?" She hated the endless questioning, the need for approval. The need to serve.

Quinn stood up and this time Rachel held her breath as the young woman cupped her cheek and looked into her eyes. What was it about Quinn that made her feel so different, so unnerved, but also so terribly small in that way that was good, and secure, and protected?

"The kitchen's yours," Quinn said in a tone that told Rachel she meant it, that she was excited about the prospect of Rachel cooking for her. "There's a stool in the closet over there if you need it to reach something," and Rachel rolled her eyes at the light-hearted teasing even though she couldn't help but smile.

"Just no spinach. I don't think I have any spinach, which is a good thing. No spinach."

"No spinach," Rachel echoed, and she sat on the couch and watched as Quinn disappeared into the bathroom to change, coming out looking as if she was a model that had just stepped off the runway, even if she was wearing only jeans and an oversized shirt.

"Sure you don't need me to stay?" Quinn asked softly as she gathered up books and papers and stuffed them into her bag.

"I need you to go on with your day like you would any other day."

"It's not any other day, Rachel."

"I'm aware," she said, and put on a smile to pacify the woman she might've called Mistress if circumstances were different. "Now go on, you don't want to be late."

Quinn shouldered her bag and started off to the door before turning around. "Rachel?"

"Hmm?"

"You'll... you'll be here when I get back, right?"

She supposed she deserved that question, but it still hurt. Rachel nodded, even if she knew that her decision was less out of a desire to be with Quinn and more because she really had nowhere else to go except home to her mother.

"I'll be here."

Quinn nodded with a half-smile on her face. "Okay. Well... I'll see you later."

"See you later... Quinn?"

She stopped and turned back, her hand on the doorknob, the door stood open.

Rachel blushed a little and bit her lip. What was she supposed to do? She was standing in the middle of Quinn Fabray's apartment, wearing her shirt. Her boxers. So domestic, as if she was the wife seeing her lady off to her day at work.

"Just... have a good day."

The apartment was quiet with Quinn gone, too quiet except for the sound of Van's purring as he curled up on Rachel's lap for belly rubs. She wasn't sure what she ought to do at that point; Quinn wouldn't be due back for hours and so Rachel knew she needed to find some way to fill her time.

Normally she'd be organizing her cd collection into genres, alphabetically by artist. And then she'd be dissatisfied and reorganize them again before going off to work at the diner. Or Rachel would sit and talk with her mother, or they'd watch a movie on television.

Never a musical.

She flipped through a couple of Quinn's magazines but nothing held her interest for very long, so Rachel tossed them back down onto the table. She angered Van by displacing him long enough to make up her—Quinn's—bed, but he decided he loved her again once his empty bowl was filled. Rachel changed out of Quinn's boxers and shirt, folding it up neatly and laying it on Quinn's bed, then sat back on the couch again.

Her thoughts turned, once again, to her mother. Rachel knew what Quinn must think of her mother; Rachel didn't want to think of it herself. Clearly Shelby had been worried; she'd called five times to Quinn's cell phone before she'd shown up at her door. Each time Rachel had told her just to ignore the call. Rachel didn't want to think of her mother sitting up all night, wondering where she was and if she was safe, and she certainly didn't want to talk to her and have to answer all of the inevitable questions.

No, she didn't know when she was coming back.

If she was coming back.

Worse than not knowing when she was coming back, though, was the guilt. Always the guilt, indescribable and thick. Words familiar as the lyrics to a Broadway melody that kept playing over in her head.

_How could you do this to me?_

_Don't you know I only want the best for you?_

_I'm trying to protect you, doesn't that count for something?_

_You know how much I love you, how much I need you._

"_I'm tired of being sad just to keep you happy!"_

Her cheek didn't burn anymore; it was the memory of it that hurt. A war was going on with Rachel, a war that seemed to be between her mother and Quinn. Her mother's reasons and Quinn's gentle consistency, that constant _there_... even after the connection had been broken. Because Rachel may have torn herself from Quinn as abruptly as possible, but little things had remained, things Rachel hadn't expected.

A gust of wind sliding a piece of green ribbon onto the sidewalk alongside her foot, as she walked to the diner. A song on her playlist, blasting through her ears when she least expected.

_How to be brave... how can I love when I'm afraid to fall?_

A scent, sweet and heady like rain in the springtime, captured in a shirt with two witches on the front.

And a heart.

A flash of blonde hair that would make her turn her head, a laugh that she could _swear_... but when she'd look that laugh would belong to a brunette or a redhead.

She'd tell herself that she was relieved, when it turned out not to be Quinn.

She'd tell herself she didn't need Quinn.

She'd tell herself she didn't think about Quinn.

And always, always, Rachel would think about her mother, and what it would do to her mother. If she sang. If she went to the theater. If she quit her job at the diner and started going on auditions.

If Quinn found her.

If she left.

Rachel glanced up at the clock. It had only been two hours. She rolled her eyes. If she was going to stay with Quinn, even if it was just for a week, she needed to find something to do.

"Do I start twiddling my thumbs?" she joked to Van, who had meandered back over to her and was now padding at her lap.

That's when the doorknob turned, as far as the lock would allow.

Rachel furrowed her brow and checked her watch. She didn't know when Quinn's classes would end, but Quinn had said "see you later," and Rachel was sure later didn't mean two hours after she'd left.

Still, "Quinn?" she called, tentatively.

The doorknob rattled.

Was it her mother? Rachel thought, feeling the unease rise within her. Had she come back to, what, kidnap Rachel and take her somewhere far away from New York, away from the diner, away from Quinn?

You're being ridiculous, Rachel told herself, but began to panic as she heard the sound of something scraping at the lock and a loud, harsh knock.

She looked around frantically, cursing the fact that she had left her mace behind when she'd walked to Quinn's. She'd heard stories like this, of people's homes that had been broken into, and, well, it was _New York._ Rachel always supposed she'd die from being mugged or in some tragic yet beautiful way that would end up in the papers, but she'd never imagined death by breaking and entering.

The rattling and scraping at the doorknob was louder, punctuated by a few more loud bangs against the wood.

Quinn had left one of her books behind, Rachel saw; she reached out and grabbed at it, still looking around. Quinn's pillow was on the other end of the couch, half hanging out of its case. Rachel dove for it, slipping the book inside and testing its weight.

The doorknob started to turn, slowly.

Rachel jumped up, casting a glance at Van. "Take care of your mom for me," she said grimly.

She'd go, but not without a fight.

She crept just to the side of the door, that was now opening wider.

"Hey, Quinn, you here? I came to get my vide-OOOF!"

The book in its pillowcase, swung with all Rachel's might, had met its mark, square in his stomach.

"Who are you?" Rachel demanded of the blond figure that was now hunched at her feet, clutching at his stomach and wheezing.

"What the hell - who are _you_?"

"I am Rachel Barbra Berry, and I assure you that if you are here to rob me, you'll receive nothing but another smack upside your head!" She shook the pillowcase for emphasis.

"Rob y- I came to get my video game, not rob you! Ow, that hurt, what the hell..."

Rachel looked down at him doubtfully. He didn't necessarily look like a robber. There was no mask, just a thick shock of blonde hair atop a figure clad in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, with a mouth much larger than necessary. He looked familiar, but Rachel couldn't place him.

"You're not here to rob Quinn?"

"I'm her neighbor! I have a key!"

Rachel looked at the doorknob. "Oh. So you do. Who are you?" she demanded again.

He stood up, still holding his stomach and nudging a hissing Van out of his way with his foot. "Sam."

"Sam?"

He pointed, feebly, towards the painting that had hung in the gallery. "Sam."

Oh.

"I am so sorry," Rachel said.

"Didn't recognize you either," was his answer. "But instant blinding pain will do that to a guy." He straightened up, taking a deep breath and wincing. "What the hell did you hit me with anyway? A brick?"

Rachel took it out of the pillowcase and looked at it. "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare."

"Close enough."

"I really am sorry."

Sam waved her off and collapsed onto the couch, staring up at her with a grin. "Rachel," he said. "_The_ Rachel. Hey."

"Hi," she said awkwardly, putting down her weapons of self-defense and perching on the other end of the couch next to him. "No internal injuries?" she queried, still feeling the flush of shame on her cheeks.

"Nah, I'm fine, you just knocked the wind out of me," he said, still grinning.

"So you're a friend of Quinn's?"

"Mmhm, yep. Met here her first week of school. I know all about you," Sam sing-songed, and Rachel frowned.

"So you're one of her classmates?"

"I'm a stripper."

Rachel gaped at him and Sam shrugged. "It's a living."

She didn't know what to make of him, this Sam that she'd just assaulted, and now he was sitting on her - their - _Quinn_'s couch acting as if he and Rachel had been old friends for years. But... she liked him, for some odd reason.

"You know all about me?"

"Not all," Sam hastened to say, looking suddenly guilty, as if he'd revealed a great secret. "But Quinn, she needs to talk sometimes, you know how it is."

"Yes." Oh, how she knew. She wondered how differently things might have turned out, if Rachel had had a Sam. Or a Jamie or an Elle.

Anyone.

Burt knew a little, only a little, and though he was kind and had fatherly advice he was still... Burt. Burt who had lost his "little girl" ten years earlier, Burt who said that it was never too late for second chances at love, Burt who never lost hope that his second chance was just around the corner. Who had told Rachel that giving up was the worst thing she could do, because she deserved a first, second, and third chance.

"So what do you talk about?"

"Yeah, I don't think Quinn would want me telling," Sam said. "But, you know, how stuff happened and how she tries to deal with stuff."

"Stuff meaning me."

"And me talking about stuff. Like work and home and Puck."

"Puck? Is that hockey?"

He laughed, and Rachel frowned again. It seemed as if someone in her life was always laughing at her. But then she told herself she was just being silly, nervous at being sat in Quinn's apartment on her first real day away from her mother. Not bad for your first day, she thought. You've had breakfast, made a bed, fed the cat, attacked a would-be intruder who turned out to be Quinn's best friend.

She sighed inwardly.

"Puck's Noah. Noah Puckerman, Puck. He's uh, my master. Or, well, he would be."

Rachel hadn't mistaken seeing Sam's eyes darken a little. "Would be?" she asked tentatively.

"We have some things we need to work out."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"You didn't, um..." She couldn't think of any other reason why a person wouldn't be with who they were meant to be with, unless... well, unless they'd done the same thing Rachel had.

Sam shook his head, and Rachel was surprised that he was looking at her with sympathy. "No, I didn't. Puck's just not ready. But you will be soon, won't you?" He tilted his head, listening.

For a split second, Rachel was jealous.

"So uh... You're at Quinn's."

Rachel nodded. "I'm just staying for a week, until things..." She hesitated. "Settle down."

"You okay?"

"No."

Sam studied her, then pursed his lips and nodded. "Bet you will be though. Quinn's pretty good at taking care of people. Especially people she loves."

"She shouldn't love me."

Sam shrugged at her. "Lots of us do things we shouldn't. But she does love you."

"I know," Rachel said.

"Do you love her?"

"So you came to get a video game?" Rachel stood up, moving to the kitchen and beginning to rifle through the cabinets. She had no idea what Quinn would like or want. All she knew was she didn't want to answer Sam's question.

"Yeah. Quinn borrows them and forgets to give them back all the time. I don't know, maybe she doesn't forget but she doesn't _want_ to give them back."

"I didn't know she plays games." She was shaking, and Rachel held onto the counter for support.

"I didn't know she plays games. I don't know what she wants to eat when she comes home. I don't know what classes she has today or what's usually always on her grocery list. I don't even know if she alphabetizes her grocery list."

"Who alphabetizes their grocery list?"

"I do! By aisle!" Suddenly angry, Rachel pushed off from the counter, causing a cup to fall into the sink, clattering loudly. She sighed.

"I barely know anything about her," she said softly, embarrassed at having fallen apart in front of a man she'd only just met.

"Well sure you do," Sam said easily, not even looking at her strangely. He came to lean across the counter at Rachel, looking at her with no trace of judgment in his eyes.

"From what Quinn tells me you two were connected a long time."

"We're not anymore."

"Well yeah, that's pretty clear." He didn't sound mean, but Rachel winced anyway. "But like, you don't just forget stuff like that, do you?"

She looked away.

"And I mean, you're staying for a week, isn't that what you said?"

Rachel nodded. "After that, I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Week's not up yet, don't worry about that right now. Just... learn all you can this week. It might be fun."

"Fun?"

"Not as fun as a body roll!" He demonstrated, and Rachel couldn't help but laugh, even as she quirked an eyebrow.

"That looks pretty fun I suppose."

"Maybe I'll teach you sometime," Sam said with a grin. "But yeah listen, a week is a long time to have some good talks and to find out more. You about Quinn, Quinn about you. She really wants to know everything."

"What if I'm disappointing?"

"What makes you think you'd be disappointing?"

"Experience."

Sam shook his head. "Not to her you're not."

Rachel distracted herself by looking into the refrigerator as she mulled Sam's words over in her head. Spaghetti sauce, pizza sauce, not much else. Alphabetical grocery list or not, they needed to go shopping.

They.

What would it be like, to have someone for once proud of her?

"Pizza."

Rachel jumped and banged her head on the refrigerator with a yelp. She closed it and turned, glaring.

"Sorry," Sam said.

"Never mind, I suppose it's payback for earlier."

"You've got a pretty mean swing, have you ever tried out for baseball?"

Rachel laughed again, and Sam grinned.

"She likes pizza, and if you want some company while you get it all ready...?"

Rachel considered all this. She could get it ready early, and have some quiet time to herself while it baked. And Sam was still grinning at her, with absolutely no expectation.

"What's the video game you came to get?" she asked by way of answer, reaching for a towel so she could clean the few remaining dishes in the sink.

"Home Invasion II: Rachel Berry Attacks."

Sam barely managed to dodge the plastic cup thrown at him.


	21. Off to See the Wizard

_You didn't have to._

_Hush._

She offers Quinn a half-smile and settles in amongst the blankets and stuffed animals piled on the floor.

Maybe thirteen is too old to have stuffed animals, she thinks, but there's a blanket over her head, draped over some chairs, and her room is warm and dim with only one lamp lit in the corner. Her mother is staying out late for something, Rachel isn't sure what. She doesn't care; she's just glad for the unfettered time to herself.

And Quinn is wearing red and white shorts and a white tee-shirt as she adjusts her own fort, which she then flops down in and gives Rachel a smile.

It's Halloween night. An unused superhero costume is tossed haphazardly in a corner of Quinn's room.

There is no costume for Rachel.

_You're missing out on all the candy._

_But I'm not missing out on you_, Quinn says simply.

Rachel shakes her head. _You deserve to have fun with… with friends, not be stuck in here with m—_

_Rachel, stop that, right now._

Quinn's tone is sharp and Rachel stops her line of thought, immediately.

_Now you listen to me_, Quinn said. _What am I missing out on, really? Getting loads of candy that I'm just going to have to run extra laps at practice to work off. Parties? There's no one there I want to see and the guys only want one thing anyway._

The rush of anger and jealousy Rachel felt was instantaneous and natural. She knew Quinn felt it too, because the girl laughed.

_Down, princess_, _it's all right. I'm just saying, I don't mind pretending to be sick if it means I get to spend time with you._

_But you—_

_Rachel. Right now, there's nowhere else I want to be but right here, with you._

She thinks about Halloween. About dressing up as Elphaba, maybe. Collecting buckets of candy and walking up and down darkened streets, laughing with friends. Going to parties and tasting the first burn of alcohol, the haze of fun and relaxation.

And she sees Quinn, on her stomach against pillows, with her feet in the air, and armed with a million DVDs. Rachel glances down at her own stack.

_Wizard of Oz_? Quinn suggests.

Rachel's smile is bright and strong as she answers.

_Follow the yellow brick road._


	22. Don't Bother

Quinn's back was hurting.

She was trying to play it off, but Rachel knew that sleeping on the couch was taking its toll on the young woman. She seemed to practically hobble as she walked about the room, still getting her books together for the one class she had that day, but she put on a brave face as she turned to her apartment-guest.

"Are you sure you're okay to do this?"

Rachel gave her a half-smile. "It's shopping, I think I can manage."

Quinn looked at her, one eyebrow perfectly arched, and Rachel couldn't help but shiver. She was familiar with it, she couldn't deny that. But it didn't matter what it had meant when she was younger… it meant something else now.

"You really don't have to, if you don't want to, Rachel."

She shook her head. "It was nice of Elle to ask, and it might be nice to just go out for a little while."

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door.

"I've got it," Quinn said, slowly making her way over and grinning at Rachel. "No need to break out Shakespeare."

Rachel huffed. "I _said_ it was an accident!"

"Putting a textbook in a pillow case and whacking my friend in the stomach is not an accident!"

"I see she hasn't let that go," Elle said, entering the apartment with a wide smile.

"Evidently not," Rachel said, shooting Quinn an angry look.

"Oh look, I'm going to be late for class if I don't leave _right now_," Quinn said hurriedly, "glancing" at her watch before giving Rachel a sheepish grin.

She shook her head again but wasn't able to keep the smile off her own face. "Go," she said, "I don't want you to be late."

"I'm actually about twenty minutes early," Quinn confessed, looking from Rachel to Elle and back again. "But I thought you two would be in a hurry to get your shop on."

Rachel wasn't sure if she was in much of a hurry to leave the apartment at all, despite knowing that she wasn't willing to trade one virtual prison for another one. She couldn't stay in Quinn's apartment for the rest of her life, even though outside the apartment lacked… what? Uncertainty. Confusion.

Clothing stores.

"We'll see where the day takes us," Elle said, and Rachel was relieved to hear how easygoing she sounded.

That had been the first impression Rachel had had of her, when she'd come over the previous night, bringing cookies. Rachel had partly believed the cookies were just an excuse for Elle to give her the once-over and report back to Quinn's friend Jamie, but Rachel couldn't say that she blamed her, really. If she had a friend who was hung up on someone as much as Quinn was still invested in Rachel, Rachel would want to make sure she was being treated right, too.

But Elle hadn't interrogated her, hadn't asked that many questions at all other than if Rachel was well and if she needed anything. She knew that Quinn had probably told Elle and Jamie what had happened, if not about how Rachel's mother had struck her, then simply that Rachel was staying a while until she could get back on her feet. She didn't know how much Elle and Jamie knew of the whole story, even before That Night, but Rachel was pretty sure she didn't mind.

It was good that at least one of them had had someone to talk to, in the past five years.

It was interesting for Rachel to watch Elle the previous night, to see the way she spoke and carried herself. If anything, Elle was a prime example of how submissiveness could be just natural, and permeate everything she said and did. Though she was friends with Quinn, it was apparent that Quinn was a Dominant; everything she said was with a tone of respect, and, once, she'd slipped up and called Quinn Ma'am – which did not go unnoticed by Rachel and made her color and clench her fists with something a little like jealousy, up until she saw Quinn looking at her with amusement.

Apparently even though Quinn couldn't feel Rachel's emotions anymore, she could _read_ her like a book.

Rachel decided she'd be less transparent in the future.

And then realized transparency was the least of her worries because in that moment she'd been thinking about her future. With Quinn.

Elle's request to take Rachel shopping had, later on that evening, gone to Quinn. Rachel had gone to the restroom and small as the apartment was, she was able to hear snatches of the conversation.

"… not sure if she's ready to just yet—"

"—can't keep her inside forever…"

"… aware of that, but I'm just trying to protect—"

"—just shopping, she might enjoy it—"

"Shopping?" Rachel had said, coming out of the bathroom after having washed her hands.

Both Elle and Quinn had jumped as if they'd been caught, which they had, really, but Rachel thought it was sweet nonetheless.

Elle crossed the short distance of the floor over to Rachel and nodded at her. "I have to run some errands tomorrow and I thought you might like to accompany me. Quinn mentioned that you might like to buy some new clothes."

Rachel cast a grateful look at Quinn, glad that she at least hadn't told Elle that Rachel had run away from home with only the clothes she was wearing.

"Your mistr- uh… Jamie won't mind?" Quinn's eyes had widened, and Rachel clamped her mouth shut.

It would have been the first time she'd said Mistress aloud in five years.

"No," Elle said, regarding Rachel a little oddly. "Like I said, I need to run some errands and my lady will be just fine as long as I finish those up as she's asked."

"Oh," Rachel felt lost, unsure of what else to say. She was quiet for a moment, then looked at Quinn, who was watching her with, once again, worried eyes.

When would Quinn Fabray ever stop worrying about her? Rachel wondered.

She'd have the answer when she stopped worrying about Quinn, she supposed.

"I- we can go," she said to Elle, her lower lip tucked firmly between her teeth. She was going shopping with someone. Granted, that someone was _Quinn's_ friend, but Rachel was going shopping with someone who wasn't her mother.

Would Elle like her?

"Excellent!" Elle had reached out and squeezed Rachel's forearm, a gesture of support that had somehow stayed with Rachel for the rest of the night, and into the next day.

"Rach?" Quinn was saying, and she focused her attention back to her.

"I thought about making a nice salad for dinner tonight, would you like that?"

"I can just pick up something on the way back, I don't want you to go through all that troub—"

"Do you like grilled chicken? If you do I'll add some to the salad for you."

Rachel scuffed the floor of the apartment with her shoe and looked up at Quinn. "A salad would be wonderful, thank you, and yes, to the chicken."

"Okay." Quinn came over to Rachel and cupped her cheek with her hand, something that had become a fast ritual in the last couple of days. Rachel knew it was probably a substitute for the kiss Quinn really wanted to give her, but still. That small touch on her face said so much.

"If you need me," Quinn said seriously, "I don't care where you are, you call, and I'll come get you."

"As if I would let anything happen to her," Elle scoffed, pretending to look hurt, but her eyes twinkled. Rachel decided that she liked her. "She'll be completely safe with me, Quinn."

"So," Elle said to her once they were out of the apartment and onto the street. "What's the first thing you think you'd like to buy?"

Rachel thought it over for a moment. "Socks," she said finally.

"Socks?"

"One can never have too many pairs of good knee socks."

"Huh. I guess you're right, even though I don't think I've ever worn knee socks."

"You're missing out."

"Maybe so, I'll have to ask my lady what she thinks of the idea," Elle laughed. "Between you and me I think she'll be pretty receptive."

Rachel nodded, again unsure of what to say but hating it when things had to devolve into yet another awkward silence. She and Quinn were getting better at avoiding those, but they'd still crop up every now and then, mostly when Rachel knew Quinn wanted to ask her What Happened?

And Rachel would just… stay quiet.

"What errands do you need to do?" she finally asked Elle, mostly because she thought it would be rude to agree to go shopping with someone and then just not say anything.

"Hmm," Elle pulled a list out of her jacket pocket and scanned it over. "Pick up items for dinner, though that can wait until the very last. Check to see if a book is available at the library, I've been wanting to read it for days now. And um, oh! Yes. Take you shopping."

Rachel stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, narrowly missing being plowed over by a businessman eager to get back to work from his lunch break.

"You didn't really have errands to run, did you?"

"No," Elle answered, the tiniest bit of a guilty expression on her face. "But I thought if I told you straight out that I came over to get to know you and get you out of Quinn's apartment for a little while, you wouldn't go."

"So you're wanting to check me out? Make sure I'm all right for Quinn?"

She was ready to turn and run, but Elle's hand on her forearm again stopped her.

"I'm wanting," the girl said evenly, and Rachel blinked in shock. "To get to know you. To make sure you're all right for yourself. And yes, to make sure Quinn is being treated well but honestly, that's secondary."

"Oh."

"I know a little of what it's like for you."

"No, you don't."

"I said _a little_."

They were quiet again until they reached the library, with Elle escorting Rachel in and leaving her long enough to inquire at the desk about her book.

"Still not in," she said, returning with a sigh. "It makes me wish I loved those obscure indie authors that my lady likes, rather than the five dollar fiction that I eat up like candy."

"What's it like?" Rachel asked suddenly, once they were back out on the sidewalk and headed towards the shops.

"What's what like?"

"Being… a submissive."

"You know what it's like, don't you?"

When Rachel didn't respond, Elle motioned to a bench off to the side, and moved to sit, Rachel perched awkwardly next to her.

"You can ask whatever you want to know," Elle said kindly. "I'm not afraid to answer anything, and I'm certainly not ashamed."

"I'm not- I wasn't ashamed, either," Rachel said.

The last thing she could ever see herself being was ashamed. At least, not because of that.

And least of all, ashamed of Quinn.

"I tried to break our connection," Elle was saying softly, and Rachel's head jerked up as she stared at her.

"Why?"

"Because we weren't bonded right away, like you and Q- like some people are." Elle's voice was quiet, wounded, as she recounted the story of how she and Jamie had grown up together as best friends, how they were sure they were meant to be together, and how it had never happened while they were teenagers.

"I convinced myself that the best, least painful way for both of us was just to stop talking to her. So that we could move on. I quickly learned it was the most painful thing I could have ever imagined trying."

"It's not the same."

"Oh, I'd never claim it is," Elle said. "I just meant... I think you and I are a lot alike, in many ways. I'd love it if you could see that things—"

"Could work out?" Rachel asked bitterly. "They've worked out just fine up until now." She paused, worrying the hem of yet another one of Quinn's shirts with her fingers. She glanced up.

"What's it like being with your lady?"

Now Elle's face took on a dreamy expression. "Perfect. I don't mean perfect in the sense that nothing goes wrong," she clarified.

"W-what goes wrong?"

Rachel wasn't sure she liked the idea of things going wrong; when things went wrong at home, it always resulted in… what she'd rather not think of.

The silent treatment. Hours with her mother in her bedroom with the door locked. Rachel fixing their meals and sitting at the table next to an empty place. Or not knowing what to expect and hearing the yells as soon as the door opened in the afternoon.

"Relationships like ours aren't easy," Elle explained. "Even though our submissiveness is natural to us, there are still things that can get messed up. Things that I need to learn, to correct. But my lady is wonderful in helping me. And she messes up too sometimes."

"She does?"

"Mmhm," Elle nodded. "There was an instance where I was punished for not completing a chore, because I was sick." Once again her voice was soft, but there was no trace of anger in Elle as she spoke. "My lady thought I was just making excuses, so she punished me then sent me to bed. An hour or so later she heard me being sick, I made a complete mess."

"What happened then?" Rachel asked, barely over a whisper.

"I don't think I've ever been as pampered as I was that night," Elle said with a giggle. "I know it was because my lady mostly felt guilty, but she really did want to show me that she was sorry for not listening to me and reading my emotions and actions. So she cleaned me up, tucked me into bed, and stayed up the whole night making jello and sitting up with me."

"That sounds nice," Rachel said quietly. She was trying not to think of that time Quinn was sick, but she was steadily finding out that keeping memories of her past with Quinn was proving ever more difficult.

"It was," Elle agreed, looking at Rachel sympathetically. "My lady and I have our moments where we forget what we need from each other, and sometimes things can get… hard."

"She doesn't um…" Rachel trailed off.

"What?"

"Hurt you?"

Elle didn't seem insulted, and Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as the other girl shook her head. "The spankings don't feel good – unless I want them," she added with a grin, and Rachel felt herself blush furiously.

"And I hate it when my lady thinks the best punishment is for her to leave our house for a few hours and for me to stay there alone with my thoughts. But I love being pulled onto her lap afterwards and held, cuddled, told that she's proud of me. I love knowing that we've argued and made up, that we've come to an understanding about something. And each time we're both stronger for it."

Rachel was silent again, considering Elle's words.

She didn't think she could endure it if Quinn ever ignored her. It would be what she deserved, she knew, since she had ignored Quinn for so long. But the idea of Quinn walking away and leaving her made her sick – and she didn't like how _that_ made her feel.

Rachel also wasn't sure if she could let Quinn… do those other things. What would it be like, she wondered, to be half-naked and draped over Quinn's lap for a spanking? Would Quinn be gentle but firm, or would she be harsh and unyielding?

Rachel didn't think Quinn would ever have it in her to be cruel, but she wasn't exactly inclined to find out, either.

And yet thinking about it, a spanking by Quinn's hands, Rachel's mouth had suddenly gone dry.

Elle was watching her, as if she could almost see the battle going on inside of her companion, and Rachel stood up abruptly.

"We should um, go shopping," she said awkwardly. "I want to get home in time for salad."

Elle only nodded and stood up herself, leading the way from the bench.

"Anything else you'd like to know?" she asked Rachel, who tilted her head, thinking.

"You're a neurologist," she said.

"I am."

"So you know about… people who break the connection?"

"I've heard of the studies."

"Can the… connection come back?"

Rachel didn't want it to. She knew she didn't. She was happy the way things were; she just had to work things out with her mother first.

But she still… wondered.

"There hasn't been enough research into that," Elle said, with a look at Rachel as if she could almost hear what she was thinking.

Which was ridiculous. Rachel had made sure, years ago, that no one would ever again be able to know what she was thinking or feeling.

Even if she wanted someone to.

Which she didn't.

"When people break a connection like that," Elle continued, "I would assume that they want it to be permanent…"

She paused, and Rachel shook her head.

"Please don't ask me," she whispered. "I don't want to be a research project."

"If I asked you, it would be because I want to be your friend, not make you my research project."

"You're Quinn's friend."

"And I can be yours too." Elle stopped and turned to Rachel. "I hope you don't mind an observation; my lady says I'm good at picking up on things."

"Fabulous," Rachel muttered, but nodded.

"You don't have friends," Elle pointed out. "For whatever reason, that's pretty clear. And yeah, I'm Quinn's friend, but there's no reason why I can't be yours too. Being a submissive doesn't mean wrapping your entire life, your entire personality and being, around one person. You're allowed to have friends now, Rachel."

Rachel hung her head, surprised that someone's words, however gentle, could strike her so, almost even worse than a slap to the face. It was tempered in the fact that Elle was a submissive like she wa- like she had been, but it didn't make it that much better.

"You're allowed to have friends, who ask you questions simply because they care about you, and not because they want to make you a study for their next term paper. Which is due next week and I am so late already oh my gosh," Elle groaned, and Rachel laughed in spite of herself.

"And you're allowed to have friends who will point out other things, too."

"What?" Rachel said, a little afraid of the answer.

Elle pointed to a shop window, to the display of a mannequin wearing a green sweater and a plaid skirt. "You would look amazing in that."

Hours later, Rachel and Elle returned to Quinn's apartment with more than a few shopping bags, laughing loudly at a joke that _Rachel_ had actually cracked. It was feeling so much better, she thought to herself, to feel comfortable around this young girl with her light auburn hair and shining eyes that seemed to sparkle even more when she talked about her Dominant.

Rachel smiled at Quinn, seeing her expression of surprise and happiness at her laughter, but the smile faded when Rachel looked to the couch.

"Hi," Jamie said pleasantly, and the wall slammed back up.

Rachel wasn't sure what it was about Quinn's friend that intimidated her. She wasn't light and breezy like Elle in her purple shirt and jeans; she seemed stern and exacting, wearing darker colors, and her eyes looking almost as if they were made of steel. Maybe it was that night at the gallery, where Rachel had been so rattled at seeing Quinn that she hadn't been able to concentrate on her server duties, and dumped an entire glass of champagne on Jamie's shirt.

Jamie had been impeccably sweet at the gallery, dismissing Rachel's profuse apologies with a wave of her hand and an "I didn't like that shirt anyway," but the only thought Rachel had had at that moment was that if she was Jamie's submissive, things would have gone bad, very bad indeed.

But Elle didn't seem to be frightened of her, one bit. "My lady!" she said happily, dropping Rachel's bags on Quinn's bed and moving to Jamie for a kiss. "My book wasn't in still," she pouted, and Jamie laughed, patting her back.

"Poor little girl," she soothed, gently. "Maybe we'll run down to the store and buy it for you."

Elle's eyes widened. "Wait, really? You said we needed to watch our budg—"

"Shh," Jamie said, casting a glance at Quinn. "Quinn and Rachel don't want to hear our money problems, baby. Besides, we can just eat noodles for another week, we'll be fine." She winked at her girl, and Elle giggled.

"Hey," Rachel said softly, taking her place at Quinn's side, smiling gratefully when Quinn actually slipped her arm around her waist. "Am I too late for dinner?"

She was hungry, and hoped she wouldn't have to skip it.

"Of course you're not too late," Quinn said with a reassuring squeeze. "I haven't even gotten started, so you can help if you want."

"I'd like that," Rachel said, genuinely happy. "I just worried that I'd stayed out too long."

"You don't have a curfew here, princess," Quinn said.

"Yeah, Quinn's not your mom, that's for sure."

"Jamie!"

Rachel looked from her to Quinn, at the furious look on Quinn's face. So Quinn had told Jamie some things, she knew. She was suddenly too tired to care.

"I know Quinn's not my mother," Rachel managed to say, not wanting to be rude. "But this is Quinn's apartment and I don't want to be trouble."

"You're not, Rach."

"Quinn's nothing like your mom, Rachel."

"My lady… stop," Elle warned softly, an edge creeping into her voice even though the deference remained.

"I'm not doing anything?" Jamie said, looking confused. "I'm just trying to help Rachel see that she doesn't have to be under that woman's thumb anymore."

"That woman is my mother!" Rachel insisted.

"Well she hasn't done a very good job of it, has she?" Jamie replied. "I mean I don't have any clue what she did to you but who else would've made you so terrified of your own shadow?"

"Jamie…"

"Please shut up," Rachel whispered, almost to herself. "Please."

"I'm not trying to be mean, Quinn, but I hate seeing you in pain and I hate seeing Rachel scared that she's going to be in trouble for being a few minutes late. And it's obvious it's her mother that did it, I mean she's probably the reason the connection got broke—"

"Jamie! Stop it!"

This time, Elle was loud, angry, dropping any deference whatsoever. Her eyes blazed as she regarded her mistress, and whether it was her or Quinn's angry growl or the way Rachel's face had turned white, she seemed appropriately cowed and took a step back from where she had stood up moments earlier.

"Rachel," she tried. "I am so sorry…"

"We need to go," Elle said, disappointment now lacing her tone. "Quinn, we'll call you later?"

"Yeah," Quinn said, watching Rachel, who had pulled away from her and was now looking around the room as if she was searching for an escape.

"Right now I need to take care of Rach—"

"Rachel, I'm sorry…" Jamie seemed devastated, if only from the absolute fury that was emanating from her submissive.

"Don't bother," Rachel said through gritted teeth, shaking. She hugged herself for a second, then her eyes landed on the door.

"Just… don't bother."

She left Quinn's apartment without a glance back, slamming the door behind her.


	23. Mommy

She has waited all day. She has prepared, she has given herself pep talks.

She has kept herself distant, to keep herself bold.

But still her resolve falters, as she feels the panic, the fear, the confusion.

_Rachel, no. Rachel, Rachel, baby, don't._

It's the first time Quinn has ever called her baby. Rachel's hands tremble.

She takes another breath.

_I'm sorry._

_Rachel, no, talk to me, please baby._

_I have to._

She steadies herself, closing her eyes. She can feel it slipping away, little threads tangling through her fingers, entangling then ripping, like ribbons on the wind.

_Rachel, it's going to be okay, whatever I did I'll fix it, please don't, little one, I promise you I'll fix it!_

She squeezes her eyes shut, then reopens them.

She has to.

_I love you… goodbye._

It feels like a tether stretched too tight, but then it's just… gone.

Rachel gasps with the release, with the sudden quiet, and her eyes widen.

The quiet. No words, no feelings, no… Quinn.

She starts to smile…

And then she screams.

The pain is fast, the pain is hard, it rocks through her chest and her lungs and leaves her scrambling for breath. She has fallen to the floor and her hands tear at the carpet as she wails, trying to see past the red of pain in her eyes and the deep, dark hurt… of _loss_.

She hears another sound.

"Oh my god," Rachel hears in shocked tones from the doorway. "Rachel, you've done it."

"Mommy," Rachel sobs, using a word she hasn't in years, and in an instant Shelby is there, pulling Rachel to her.

"Mommy, it hurts…"

"I know, I know," Shelby croons into her ear, rocking her. "It's all right, Rachel, it's all right, you're going to be fine. Oh, I'm so proud of you!"

She is, Rachel knows she is, and before today, to hear those words would have made her so _happy_.

But all she can feel – ALL she can feel, after 7 years – is pain.

"Mommy, it hurts," she sobs again. "Let me have her back, please let me have her back, I want Quinn, please…"

She's begging, screaming, and all around her, all she can hear in the empty silence of her mind, is her mother.

"It's going to be all right, Rachel, I'm so proud of you…"


	24. Fate

_I'm downstairs. I'm fine. I'll be back soon._

Rachel had hit send on the text message as soon as she'd written it, as soon as her feet had hit the carpet in the common room. Luckily the room was empty and she was alone, and she curled up in one of the armchairs in the corner, wrapping her arms around her legs and burying her forehead in her knees.

Stupid Jamie, she thought to herself. Stupid, nosy, annoying, completely accurate Jamie.

She lifted her head and wiped the tears that had begun to fall, looking around the room. Quinn had told her about all the time she'd spent here since moving to New York. All the time she'd spent talking to Sam.

About her.

"Ruined everything," Rachel muttered to herself.

But she wasn't sure that she believed that anymore.

She was hungry; the telltale sound of her stomach growling told her that much. She wanted to have dinner; Quinn had promised a salad and Rachel was desperate to sit at the counter and watch her, or even to help her. She was steadily realizing that she loved being with Quinn in the "kitchen" of her studio apartment.

Rachel was steadily realizing she just loved being around Quinn.

Her cell phone beeped.

_Come back whenever you're ready, princess. Elle and Jamie have gone home._

Always "princess," Rachel thought with a small smile. She knew Quinn was probably angry at her for running off, just like her mother had been. Rachel also knew she'd have to go and face the music sooner or later, but that didn't mean she was in any sort of hurry.

Her stomach was, though, growling again, and she sighed to herself. She unfolded herself from the chair after another fifteen minutes, then made the trek back upstairs to Quinn's apartment.

Quinn's eyes were red-rimmed when Rachel opened the door, and Rachel tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.

"I'm sorry I made you cry…"

"It's all right, I just thought you weren't—"

"Weren't coming back, I know," Rachel finished softly. She looked down at the floor.

"You can yell at me if you want."

"Yell at you?" Quinn said, sounding confused.

"For leaving. For what happened with Jamie."

"I've done my yelling for what happened with Jamie, and it certainly wouldn't have ever been at you."

Rachel looked up at Quinn. "What?"

"I'm not going to yell at you," Quinn reiterated, coming over and placing her hand lightly on Rachel's shoulder. "Jamie got a nice earful from me, though. Rachel, I am so sorry."

Rachel would've shrugged, but she didn't want Quinn's hand to move. "It happens."

"Not here," Quinn said, "not to my – not to you. Not while I'm around."

"No one's gonna harm me, not while you're around," Rachel couldn't help but sing, and she blushed, seeing Quinn's smile light up her face.

"That's exactly right," she said, and squeezed Rachel's shoulder. "Come fix dinner with me."

They made dinner in companionable silence, broken only by Quinn's giggle when she saw Rachel sneaking a piece of chicken, and Rachel's when Quinn stole a tomato. Dinner was quiet, too, as was the rest of the evening, because Quinn needed to study for a test and Rachel didn't like to interrupt her. But she also knew Quinn would probably get too distracted to remember to eat, and Rachel brought her a plate of apples and cheese, two hours in. As she walked away, Quinn caught her hand and held it, meeting her eyes.

Rachel smiled.

But she shook her head when she came out of her shower and saw Quinn making up her bed on the couch.

"Quinn, your back is hurting you."

"It's not so bad," Quinn said, straightening up, but Rachel had seen the wince anyway.

"You're sleeping in your bed," she said firmly. "I'll take the couch."

"You certainly will not," Quinn said, just as firmly. "I'm fine." She moved to place her pillow, a gasp of pain escaping her lips as she bent down.

"Nope," Rachel said, moving to support Quinn as she led her in the direction of the bed. "You're not fine, and I'm not going to have you hurting yourself for my comfort. You are sleeping in your own bed tonight, Quinn Fabray, and that's final."

"I thought I was the dominant," Quinn joked feebly, but sat on the bed. "But all right, I'm hurting too much to argue with you."

"I thought so." Rachel went and retrieved some ibuprofen and water for Quinn, then handed it to her upon her return. She gathered up Quinn's pillows from the couch, bringing them to the bed as well. She went to the side that she'd been using, but a hand on hers stopped her.

"You're not sleeping on the couch," Quinn said again.

"Then I'll sleep on the floor."

"Like hell you will."

"Fine," Rachel sighed, and looked at Quinn. "I'll sleep… in the bed too."

"I won't do anything," Quinn promised.

"I know, Quinn. You'd never."

If it were any other person, Rachel would never trust them. But it was Quinn.

Quinn was different. Quinn had always been different.

Quinn took her own shower and Rachel laid on her back on the bed staring up at the ceiling with her arms folded over her stomach. She absurdly wondered if she looked like the nervous bride about to lose her virginity. The nervousness was only compounded when Quinn came out of the shower with wet hair and a flushed face, smelling of gardenia and soap.

Quinn slipped under the covers with a soft smile to Rachel, and rolled her eyes at Van, who positioned himself between both their heads.

"He never sleeps anywhere but at my feet," she explained. "I guess you really have bewitched him."

Rachel laughed a little, but said nothing.

She could feel the heat radiating off Quinn's skin from the hot shower, and she shivered a little.

"Are you cold?" Quinn rolled over slightly to pull the blankets up on Rachel. "I can turn the heat up if you'd like."

"I'm fine," Rachel said. "I promise."

"Okay…" Quinn sounded doubtful, but she didn't press the issue. "Well… good night, Rachel."

"Good night, Quinn."

There was a moment's hesitation before Quinn reached her bedside lamp, and plunged the room into darkness.

Rachel squinted, still on her back, trying to focus on the ceiling, but she saw nothing, and heard nothing except Quinn's breathing, quiet at her side.

Quinn, strong and steady. Quinn who had loved her, Quinn who loved her still.

She was so close, so…

"His name is Ben," Rachel said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Quinn must have sensed that this was important, because Rachel felt her hand slide over, searching, until it found Rachel's and held fast, between them.

"Ben?"

"My… my dad."

"You've never talked about your dad…"

"I don't know him," Rachel confessed. "He left before I was born."

Quinn's thumb was stroking the skin of Rachel's hand; Rachel gripped harder and Quinn met her measure for measure.

"Keep holding on?" Rachel asked.

"I will, princess."

"I-I used to always wonder what he looked like," Rachel said, knowing she'd be unable to stop the words once they'd started. "Do I have his eyes? His smile? I already know I have mom's nose."

Quinn chuckled and squeezed her hand.

"I like your nose."

"You always say that."

"And I always will."

She spoke in a halting voice then, telling Quinn how she used to look for her father on the street. Little Rachel kept expecting to turn a corner and see him there, or to come home and open the door and he'd be sitting on her couch.

"We'd go to a show," Rachel said wistfully. "We'd go to a show and he'd buy me all the souvenirs I wanted. We'd sit in the front row and then he'd hold me while we waited at stage door because of course I'd be tired but excited. And then when the actors came out he'd set me down and he'd look at the lead actress and say 'This is my daughter, Rachel, she's going to be just like you someday.'"

"So your dad would tell her that you were going to have her job?"

Quinn was teasing and Rachel blushed, but she rolled over so that she was facing Quinn, their hands still joined. She could just make out Quinn's eyes in the moonlight, and she wasn't surprised to see tears.

"Exactly."

"And what would you do after the show?"

Rachel shrugged. "Go home and cook dinner with mom. Or we'd go get her and take her out to dinner so she wouldn't have to worry about cooking and doing the dishes." Rachel fell silent for a moment.

"But none of the men I saw were ever my daddy. And he never came home."

"Why?"

"Because he didn't know I existed."

Rachel heard Quinn gasp, and her hand tightened, almost painfully so, before releasing.

"Why not, princess?"

"When my mom was a little girl," Rachel said, feeling the lump in her throat making it hard for her to speak and breathe, "Her mom told her that someday she'd meet her prince. That he'd love her, and only her, forever and ever. She said that my grandma told her the bond would flow around her like rain. I never understood what that meant, until…"

"Until?" Quinn prompted.

"Until I met you."

"Is your mom a submissive?"

Rachel nodded, then rolled her eyes at herself, because of course Quinn couldn't see. "She's a submissive, yes."

There had been little flashes of it, Rachel had seen; little moments where someone's true nature couldn't help but shine through, as much as you tried to control it, to bury it. As much as you could hate yourself for it, it was always there.

"And then she met Ben?"

Quinn's hand hadn't left hers yet; Rachel clung to it as if it was a life raft. She knew she'd inched closer to Quinn, could tell because she could feel Quinn's breath on her skin, and at some point Quinn had taken her other hand and was now running tentative fingers through her hair. Rachel tilted her head into it.

"She met him when she was 18."

"And then she bonded—"

"No."

"No?"

"Ben and Mom didn't bond."

"Oh."

"But she fell in love with him that first day," Rachel said. "She told me it was like a fairytale. The princess lays eyes on her prince, and that's it for her. Nothing else existed for her but Ben, and how much she wanted to sing."

"Your mom wanted to sing?!" Rachel winced at Quinn's elevated voice, moving to pull away, but Quinn held fast.

"Shh, I'm sorry, it's okay, I'll be more careful. I'm just surprised, Rach."

"My mother's voice is amazing," Rachel said sadly. "The most beautiful voice I think I've ever heard, with a few exceptions, she did have some pitch issues when she was younger. She should have been destined for Broadway, or at the very least a successful recording career. But then…"

"But then she met Ben."

"You should let me finish the story," Rachel said wryly, and Quinn chuckled again; Rachel felt her skin burn when Quinn dared to lightly kiss her forehead.

This burn… this burn she liked.

"Finish your story, Rach."

"Mom met Ben when she was 18. It was love at first sight, she told me. For her, and, she thought, for Ben. But the bond wasn't there, like it wasn't for Elle and Jamie I guess."

"Yeah, it kind of crept up and surprised them when they didn't expect it."

Rachel nodded to herself, her chest hurting as she recounted her mother's, and thus her own, story.

"Mom and Ben thought it would happen for them that way I guess. They were young, they were in love, they were each other's first intimate partners, and that felt so natural for them there was no reason they wouldn't bond. They just thought fate has a peculiar way of working."

"Hey, your mom and I think alike," Quinn said brightly. "Imagine that."

"You're impossible."

"Yes, but you love me."

"Fate does have a peculiar way of working, because right as mom found out that there was going to be the pitter patter of little feet around the house—"

"And there's still the pitter patter of little feet."

"Quinn, now is not the time for a short joke."

"You're right, sorry, go on."

"Right as Mom found out that she was pregnant with me," Rachel continued, loving the fact that Quinn was breaking up the story to comfort her, even if it was with jokes about her height, "Ben bonded."

"Oh wow, that's wonderful, how did your mom feel?"

"Ben bonded with someone else."

"Oh, _no_."

Rachel sighed and turned onto her back again, but didn't let go of Quinn's hand.

"I never knew her name, I don't think he bothered to tell Mom and I don't think she'd have cared regardless. She was 22 years old, desperately in love, desperate to be bonded to the man she wanted for her Dominant."

"And pregnant."

"Pregnant with his child, and he says that he's sorry, but that he loves someone else. That when she finally meets her true love, she'll understand. He…" Rachel faltered, and took a deep breath, buoyed by yet another squeeze to her hand.

"He broke her heart."

There was silence for a moment, then Quinn said, hesitantly, "Rach… she didn't tell him she was pregnant, did she?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I suppose she felt that he didn't deserve to know."

"_You_ deserved for him to know."

"I didn't know any of this myself for the longest time. But I'd like to think that I'm of somewhat higher intelligence—"

"You are."

"You're rather biased, do you know that?"

"Is it really biased if it's the truth?"

"You're insufferable."

"I am."

"But even as a child we learn to ask questions, even if we don't ask our parents. Why does mommy always look sad? Why doesn't mommy like me to read fairy tales? Why doesn't mommy sing like she used to in those tapes that I found in a box under her bed?"

"You went looking for stuff under her bed?"

"Higher intelligence, needing answers, home alone."

"Ah."

Rachel closed her eyes then, trying to fight the wave of memories as she told Quinn everything, everything she had held back ever since she was six years old, and even more so after she'd broken the connection. How Shelby had occasionally spoken out bitterly against bonding, and was resistant to Rachel even thinking about it. How she'd cried when she'd discovered Rachel had been bonded, and not out of happiness.

"I tried to explain how wonderful I felt," Rachel said mournfully. "I tried to tell her how amazing it was, that this person named Quinn who lived someplace far away wanted me. ME. I-I didn't have any friends, you know, just people who spilled my juice or dumped slushies on me. No one would sit with me at lunch, or want to come home with me for birthday parties or just to listen to Barbra cds. Honestly, who doesn't want to listen to Barbra cds?"

Rachel laughed only a little at her own silliness, especially when Quinn wisely kept quiet.

"She cried when she heard me sing. I didn't understand why she didn't want me to sing, because she seemed to love it so, once, and she could have been so successful…"

"Why do you think she didn't want you to sing? To be bonded?"

Quinn sounded so hurt, so lost; Rachel turned onto her side again and impulsively let go of Quinn's hand, only to wrap her arm around the young woman's waist.

"I'm quite certain it reminded her of everything she wanted but would never be able to achieve, in her mind. I-I confess I did feel rather guilty at having been born, because… if I hadn't, maybe she would've been happy…"

Quinn growled low in her throat. "Don't you ever feel bad about being born, do you understand me? You're beautiful, you're amazing, and you have every right to be here."

"Yes, Quinn," Rachel replied dutifully, then froze. Quinn had noticed it too, because she stiffened in Rachel's embrace just slightly, before relaxing.

"I just… wanted her to be proud of me," Rachel whispered. She was scared to speak any louder, almost as if her mother would pop into the room and yell at her for being up at such a late hour.

"I know she loves me, she does, despite what everyone thinks," Rachel insisted.

"Rachel, princess, I've never doubted for an instant that your mother loves you. I've just been so scared ever since that day. Not knowing what happened or why, if you were taken care of, if you were safe, if you were _alive_…"

"I didn't want to do it," Rachel burst out, and the tears began to flow, fast and freely.

"Rach…"

"I didn't want to break it," Rachel said, sounding desperate. "But I-I had to, Quinn, I just—"

"You didn't have to." There was bitterness in Quinn's voice, and Rachel began to cry harder.

"I just wanted her to be proud of me. I knew she loved me because I was her daughter and because for so long it was just her and me, and that's the way she wanted it. 'Getting bonded will only break your heart, Rachel,' she kept saying. 'Quinn will love you for a little while, but for how long?'"

"Forever," Quinn snapped. "You let me see her again and I'll tell her how long I'll love you. Until I don't have a breath left in me, that's how long I'll love you, Rachel Berry. And you can't blame me for that."

"I don't!" Rachel cried. "Don't you know that's what I've wanted since I was six years old? Don't you remember what you said to me, that first day?"

"'I think I'm supposed to love you.'"

"And you _did_, you found me just like you said you would, but I just wanted her to be proud of me. ' A woman doesn't need a bond,' she said. 'You're strong enough without Quinn, you can do whatever you want to without Quinn.'"

"Except sing or be happy, apparently."

"And so I practiced. I'd asked her about it and if you could've seen how happy it made her—"

"Happy that you were going to sacrifice your life for hers? Yeah, I'd like to have seen that."

"So I practiced, and I-I tried to pull away from you but I didn't want to, Quinn, I need you to believe that."

"I do." Quinn's hand was in Rachel's hair again, and if the situation had been different, the motion was so comforting that it would have put Rachel to sleep in five minutes flat.

"I practiced, and I tried to pull away from you, and I kept waiting for my dad – for Ben – to show up and rescue me and my Mom, to show her that all of us could be happy, that it was possible. But my dad never showed up, my Mom was always sad, and I-I just… I did it."

"I remember."

Now Quinn only sounded sad, not angry, and that somehow made Rachel feel worse. She was cognizant of the fact that she was almost on top of Quinn as she cried, but she no longer cared.

"Quinn, it hurt. It hurt so much."

"It hurt me too."

"I don't understand how you don't hate me, why don't you hate me?"

"Because I'm supposed to love you, princess. And I do."

"You shouldn't. I'm not good for you."

"Rach?"

"What?"

Now Quinn was half up on her elbow, looking down at Rachel.

"If you're not good for me and the connection is broken, then why are you here? Why are you telling me all this? Why am I the one you came to when your mom hit you?"

She couldn't do this, Rachel decided. There was no way she could. She needed to get up and get dressed. To go back to her mother and tell her mother that she was right. That being bonded to someone had only brought her pain, would continue to only bring her pain, and that no amount of Barbra songs or Broadway lights or gentle touches to her face, wiping away the tears on her cheeks, could make it worth it.

But she wasn't fourteen years old anymore. She no longer had the strength or resolve after five long years. Instead she was weak, spent, broken against the pillows as she took a long, shuddering breath.

"Because every day for the last five years, whether I've wanted to or not, whether I've actually _thought_ it or not, I've been looking for you. Waiting for you."

"Rachel…"

"I love you, Quinn. I-I still love you, and it's gone, and I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, it's my fault, I'm so sorry…"

In a matter of seconds Rachel was pulled into a pair of strong arms, and held close to a heart, beating steady and sure.

"I've got you," Quinn said in a trembling voice. "Rachel, princess, it's all right, I've got you."

"I want it back," Rachel said, clinging to her. "I want it back so much, I t-tried sometimes and it just wouldn't come back, no matter what I did…"

"Well, now you don't have to do it alone," Quinn whispered, brushing Rachel's hair back from her face as she clutched her tightly. "I'm here now, I told you I'd find you, I'm here, and I'm not letting you go this time."

"I missed you so much," Rachel sniffled, her hand lightly fisted in Quinn's tee-shirt. "I kept telling myself every day that I don't need you, that working at the diner is enough and that my mom really did know what was best for me but I just… I just miss you."

"I missed you too, princess," Quinn said. "You know, I-I kept all of your presents, hoping I could give them back to you someday."

"All of them? I thought it was just the crown."

Rachel felt Quinn shake her head. "All of them. Every birthday, every holiday. Even the ones you didn't celebrate. I have them all."

"Oh." She paused, then buried her face in Quinn's chest with embarrassment.

"Can I have them?"

Quinn laughed, a light, happy sound, and Rachel smiled a little. "Every single one."

"I'm sorry…"

"Shh. No more of that. We start over tonight, if… if you want."

Rachel hesitated. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we won't do anything you don't want," Quinn said carefully. "But if you want to stay here, and if we want to try… then we will."

"What if it won't come back?"

"The Rachel Berry I know never dealt in what-ifs."

"I'm a different Rachel Berry."

"Not completely."

"I need you to go slow."

"Like a turtle."

"That's not very romantic."

"I'm better at romance in the mornings."

Rachel pulled back and looked at Quinn. In the moonlight, her eyes were still sparkling with tears, but there was also happiness, a complete, unadulterated happiness that Rachel hadn't seen in a long time, but there was also concern. Concern that she now knew would never vanish from Quinn, that Quinn would always be worried, would always _love_ her.

She hesitated only a second before she fulfilled the one wish that she'd had ever since she was a six year old girl. Rachel leaned forward and pressed her lips against Quinn's. She tasted the mint of toothpaste and the sweetness that was _Quinn_; she paused and waited with fear running through her veins until, with a small, choked sob, Quinn kissed her back. Years of emotion, both known and not, poured through as the two women wrapped their arms around each other and cried.

In the darkness of a studio apartment in New York City, with their tears mingling together, Rachel Berry kissed Quinn Fabray.

Over, and over, and over.


	25. Call Me Yours

Her alarm didn't go off.

Her alarm didn't go off and she had already missed one class, and was set to be nearly 20 minutes late for her next one.

Quinn smiled as she turned her attention away from the clock and poured a second glass of orange juice. She would miss her classes today and she didn't care.

Because at ten minutes after two a.m., with lips feeling bruised from kisses and a small brunette tucked sleepily into her, Quinn had reached over to her phone and turned the alarm off.

Rachel was still asleep, warm under blankets and with a small pout on her lips that had formed when Quinn had woken up thirty minutes ago and reluctantly extracted herself from the girl's embrace. Dark curls tumbled haphazardly over the pillow and Quinn's smile grew softer, remembering how she'd awakened several times during the night just to run her fingers through Rachel's hair. She'd needed the reassurance that Rachel was, really and truly, finally hers. At one point, Rachel had stirred with a whispered "Hi," and another gentle kiss before she'd drifted off again. It seemed that for the first time, both of them could actually sleep.

Quinn wasn't sure that she still believed that everything was real. She kept running her fingertips over her lips, replaying the kisses from the night before. It had taken them both a while to stop crying; Rachel from the utter pain of revealing why the bond had been broken, and Quinn from the grief of the lost little girl Rachel had been, and the ultimate relief that finally, finally they were together. She wasn't under any delusion that she could fix things in an instant; in fact she was more than a little scared about the gravity of the situation. But always, always under the fear had been the constant drive that she'd had ever since she was seven years old.

Take care of Rachel.

Now that she was able to truly think about things, even in the haze of last night's events and still being half-asleep, Quinn could feel the growing anger at Rachel's mother, bubbling just below the surface. Maybe it was because Quinn had grown up with her mother and her father; maybe because she'd had an amazing family, full of people who supported her no matter what – and who – she was. But even if she hadn't had her mom and dad and her grandparents, Quinn couldn't imagine someone in her life doing what Rachel's mother had done to her.

And Quinn knew it had left Rachel damaged. Knew it in the way the younger girl acted as if she constantly needed reassurance, as if she was constantly in fear of doing something wrong that would raise someone's ire. Which was precisely why Quinn had let Jamie know, in no uncertain terms, that until she could make things right with Rachel, maybe it was best Jamie didn't come over again. She knew that pained Elle probably more than Jamie; but Quinn also wanted to make sure that the next time Jamie and Rachel interacted, it was on Rachel's terms.

She was glad that she'd finally done a little bit more than her usual grocery shopping; now she had toast, cereal, fruit, bacon, and eggs to offer Rachel. Two plates done up on a small wooden tray, flanked by glasses of orange juice and a small fresh gardenia resting in the center. Quinn was alerted to a slight rustling from the bed and rolled her eyes.

"Not yet, Van, I'll have your breakfast in a minute."

"I think he's still enjoying your pillow, actually."

Quinn turned and saw Rachel staring up at her with bleary eyes; her smile threatened to split her face, but she couldn't help it. Rachel was warm and sleepy in her bed, looking at her with love and hopeful expectation.

Rachel Berry loved her. Had always loved her, bond or no bond.

"Sit up, princess," Quinn instructed softly, and brought the tray over to the bed.

"What's all this?" Rachel asked, pushing herself up against the pillows as Quinn positioned the tray across her lap.

"Breakfast," Quinn said simply, slipping onto the bed next to her.

"Oh." Rachel stared at it, then at Quinn. "You didn't have to, I could have gottmph—" She stopped, her words cut off from Quinn unceremoniously popping a blueberry into her mouth.

"Hush," Quinn said with a grin. "Breakfast."

Rachel chewed and swallowed, then looked at Quinn again with a shy smile. Leaning over she brushed her lips with a kiss.

"Thank you, Quinn. Everything looks wonderful." Her hand moved to the fork to the side of her plate, but stopped.

"What about your classes?"

"Rachel, I have no problem with feeding you your breakfast if it means no lectures."

Rachel hmphed quietly but picked up her fork and started in on the eggs. She ate in silence for a few minutes, before reaching across the tray and nudging Quinn's spoon in her direction.

"All right, I get the hint," Quinn laughed, and leaned back against the headboard, getting comfortable so she could eat her own breakfast.

"It really is wonderful," Rachel said, taking a sip of her orange juice. "I thought you told me that you didn't cook much?"

"I have a good reason to, now," Quinn said, taking Rachel's free hand in her own and squeezing it gently.

"You don't have to cook for me all the time."

"That's not what I meant, Rach."

Rachel leaned her head on Quinn's shoulder. "But if you do, make sure it's always breakfast."

Quinn shook her head and kissed the top of Rachel's. "What would you like to do today?"

"I want to go see my mother."

The feeling of revulsion was instant, and Quinn pushed her plate away, the fork clattering noisily against the glass. Rachel's hand in hers tightened.

"Quinn, look at me."

She almost didn't dare to, afraid of what she might see, but Rachel's eyes were wide, bright, understanding.

"If I'm to stay here," Rachel said carefully, "I need my cds. I've been away from Barbra far too long."

Quinn picked up her fork again, trying not to reveal too much of the worry that Rachel's words had caused her. "I'm a little jealous of your attachment to Barbra," she teased. "How much competition have I got here?"

"Oh, I don't know," Rachel drew out, a dimple appearing in her right cheek.

Dimples! Quinn thought to herself, and nearly squealed. This wasn't something that she hadn't known; she felt as if she'd known nearly everything about Rachel since the girl was six years old, but now Rachel was finally _hers_, new to know and discover.

"I've never heard _you_ sing, so I'm not sure how you stack up against Barbra Streisand."

Quinn made a face. Rachel used to always pester her to sing, but she never would. She didn't mind singing with her grandmother as they drove with the top down to her karaoke competitions, but for some reason, singing by herself was just…

But now Rachel's eyes were soft and deep, and the words were coming before Quinn could stop them.

"I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright… and I pity, any girl who isn't me tonight…"

She trailed off, staring down at her plate, her cheeks flushed and hot with embarrassment. She blinked in surprise when she felt Rachel's lips against the corner of her mouth.

"Barbra has no chance."

"Do you think it's a good idea for you to go… there?" Quinn finally asked after a few more moments of silence.

Rachel finished off some more fruit, appearing deep in thought, before answering. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I don't know what she'll say or what she'll try to do but I need my clothes, my cds. Some personal items. And I do think that my mother and I need to talk."

"Do you want me to—"

"Yes," Rachel said before Quinn had even had a chance to finish the question. "I know that I could do this on my own if I wanted to. At least, I think I could, now. But I don't want to. I want you there with me."

"That could cause problems," Quinn warned. She wanted to say that it would cause problems because she'd probably find it hard not to punch the woman that had slapped her princess, but she wisely kept that quiet.

"I know," Rachel agreed. "But my mother needs to know that… despite everything, you and I are…" Now it was Rachel's turn to blush, and Quinn couldn't help but find it the most endearing thing in the world.

"My mother needs to know that you and I are a package deal."

"A package deal?" Quinn said with a raised eyebrow. "Are we on sale?"

"Of course not," Rachel huffed. "But I can sing, dance and act. I'm the total package, and I made a deal with you."

She stuck out her tongue, and there was that dimple again, and Quinn Fabray knew she was gone, at the hands of Rachel Berry.

"A deal, huh?" she said, focusing on her bacon and not looking at Rachel. "What's included in this deal?"

She didn't want to scare Rachel, to drive the girl away any more than she already had at first. Quinn no longer had any dreams of guiding Rachel to her knees and making her into the perfect submissive. That was a good thing, Quinn knew, but she'd be lying to herself if she said she didn't want Rachel to submit to her. But just like the incident with Jamie, she knew it had to be on Rachel's terms. And Rachel needed her to go slow.

"Like a turtle," Quinn muttered to herself, and Rachel looked at her oddly.

"I don't know what's included," she said. "I suppose that it's something we can work out as we go? I'll get notebooks and pens when I retrieve my things, so we can write them down."

"I uh, have pens and notebooks here, Rachel."

"Gold star stickers to highlight the most important points?"

"… No."

"Well then."

"I almost forgot about your love for gold star stickers," Quinn said a little sadly, and Rachel removed her hand to wrap her arm around Quinn's waist.

"And I almost forgot about your insatiable love for bacon," Rachel said, her head once again on Quinn's shoulder.

"I don't have an insatiable love for—" She stopped, glancing over and seeing Rachel's knowing look. "Okay, I do."

Rachel smiled and kissed her cheek before saying softly, "I know there's a lot we need to figure out, and I do need us to go slow. But I don't see why we can't write things down. Things you want, things I need. Just… please don't be disappointed in me if those two things don't match?"

Quinn shook her head and took the tray with its now-empty plates, setting it down on the floor next to the bed, and gathered Rachel into her arms.

"I won't say I'll never be disappointed," Quinn said truthfully, "But _you_ are never going to be a disappointment to me, princess. You may be the total package, but you're not perfect. Neither am I. I think as long as we know that, we'll be okay."

Rachel was nervous and fidgety during the walk to the subway, and even more nervous and fidgety on the subway ride to the house she shared with her mother. She was gorgeous, Quinn thought as she watched her carefully. Rachel's legs seemed to go on for miles in the new skirt she wore, and Quinn's mouth was more than a little dry as she tried and failed not to notice the tightness of Rachel's sweater over her curves. But all of that was eclipsed by the faraway look in Rachel's eyes as she unsubtly watched a couple standing close together holding on to one of the rails. The dominant cuddled her submissive close to her, and he seemed as if he couldn't get close enough to his mistress. They were affectionate and happy, clearly in love.

There was something a little like jealousy and a lot like sadness in Rachel's eyes, and Quinn moved closer to her, her hand lightly resting on Rachel's knee. Rachel jumped, and Quinn smiled apologetically at her.

"It's not your fault," she said quietly.

"Yes, Quinn, it is, I—"

"Rachel." Her voice was sharp, but only mildly so; still, it was enough for Rachel to instantly sit up and take notice.

"I know you feel guilty, and I know you blame yourself. But there's only one person I blame, and it isn't you."

"She didn't mean to…"

"She may not have known how bad it would be for you, but yes, Rachel, she meant to."

Rachel was quiet for a moment, then leaned her forehead against the subway window, watching the world fly by.

"I still love her."

Quinn's heart broke, and she slipped her arm around Rachel's waist, kissing her temple. "I never asked you not to, princess."

Rachel's house was a small one, on the outskirts of the city not far from the diner. Nothing about it screamed anything but ordinary; there was nothing about the two story white house that would have revealed anything about its inhabitants, and the pain both had gone through. Quinn wasn't sure, as they slowly approached the green front door, if that made things better or worse.

The door swung inwardly before they knocked.

"Rachel," said Shelby, "I'm glad you're home."

She was, Quinn reflected again, a near carbon copy of her daughter. Older, taller, and maybe a little more borne down by the weight of her own personal world, but as alike Rachel Berry as a person could be. The same hair, dark as to be almost black. The same eyes, and, of course, the same nose. And the same smile, strained and polite as Shelby regarded Quinn.

"You've brought a guest."

Rachel had hugged her mother, and now she drew back, holding out her hand. Quinn took it and squeezed, an action that didn't go unnoticed by Shelby, who glared. Quinn steeled herself.

"Mom, you've met Quinn already," Rachel said, and moved past Shelby, who had stepped back, to pull Quinn into her house.

Quinn said nothing as Shelby shut the door behind them. She was busy studying the pictures on the walls, pictures of baby Rachel. She smiled, tears rushing to her eyes as she took in Rachel playing in her backyard, a ball clutched in her pudgy hands. Rachel taking her first steps, arms held out, balancing herself. Rachel throughout her school years, positioned in front of generic photo backgrounds. And as many pictures as there were of Rachel alone, there were just as many, if not more, of Rachel with her mother.

There was clearly love in that house, Quinn knew, even if, in the one picture of fifteen year old Rachel and her mother, their smiles didn't quite reach their eyes.

Quinn didn't address Shelby, but kept her gaze fastened on Rachel, who stood in the middle of her living room floor, twisting her hands together now that she had let go of Quinn's.

Rachel took a deep breath. "I came to get my things, Mom."

"Your things?" Shelby said. "I don't understand…"

It took all of Quinn's effort not to roll her eyes. Of course the woman understood, she had to understand. Your daughter's leaving, she wanted to yell. She's getting the hell away from you and your sick kind of concern, and she's moving in with me. And I'll take better care of her than you ever did.

She stayed quiet. Mostly because Rachel was speaking.

"I've come to get my clothes, my cds. Other things. I'm going to take them back to Quinn's."

"Back to Quinn's." Now Shelby's voice was cold, as were her eyes when she regarded the blonde young woman standing next to her daughter.

"Rachel, you're not going back to Quinn's."

Quinn made a noise low in her throat, not enough for Shelby to hear, but Rachel did, and she put out her hand for Quinn to take.

"Rachel, baby, I've indulged this nonsense long enough. I've let you stay with _her_ long enough for you to think about things, and now it's time for you to come back home. Where you belong."

"You have no idea where she belongs," Quinn spoke up, but silenced when Rachel shook her head.

Shelby laughed. "I think I know better than anyone where my daughter belongs."

"Better than she does?" Quinn asked. "Have you ever once asked your daughter what she wants?"

"I'm not going to be lectured about my daughter by _you_," Shelby spat out, taking a step forward, and Quinn positioned herself in front of Rachel.

"What are you going to do," she said, meeting Shelby's eyes. "Slap me?"

Shelby seemed to deflate almost immediately, and for a split second Quinn actually felt sorry for her. But not enough for her to give in.

"I know how you feel about me," she admitted. "I know you've been hurt and you think I'm just going to do the same thing to your daughter. And—and maybe I will, or maybe she'll hurt me, I don't know. Or maybe this'll all be just perfect, like it should be. I don't know that either. But all I know, all I've known since I was seven years old is that we deserve to be able to try. You took that away from me. You took it away from your daughter, and…"

Quinn sighed and shook her head. Her voice was tiny when she spoke again. "And I'm going to fight like hell to get it back." She looked at Shelby. "I'm not going away. Not anymore. I love her."

"And I love her," Rachel said, and Quinn smiled at her gratefully. "But I still love you, too, Mom. I just have to do this. I'm going to stay with Quinn."

Shelby was silent for what seemed like hours, before she finally nodded, with tears in her eyes. "If that's what you want to do, Rachel," she said, "I'm not going to stop you. You'll come visit though?"

Rachel nodded. "Yeah, Mom. I'll come visit."

Shelby smiled slightly, and so did her daughter.

Once inside her room, with the door closed to give them privacy, Rachel sank onto her childhood bed and gave out a shaky breath. Instantly Quinn was at her side, holding the smaller girl to her. "Are you all right?" she asked, running her hand through Rachel's hair.

"Mmhm," Rachel said, nuzzling into Quinn. "That was just harder than I expected it to be."

"I know," Quinn said, looking around the room. Her eyes fell on a small silver crown, on the table next to Rachel's bed, and she smiled. Reaching out, she picked it up and then lightly, gently, placed it on Rachel's head.

"Rachel," she pronounced quietly. "Princess of my heart."

Rachel bit her lip, blushing, before she bent forward and kissed Quinn's hand. "I've changed my mind."

"About what?" Quinn asked, beginning to panic.

"You actually are quite romantic."

The people on the subway looked as if the two women with four suitcases and a rolling case had three heads each, but they left Rachel and Quinn alone once they realized Rachel had mace ("I have mace and I know how to use it!") in her hand. It was a struggle to get Rachel's cds, books, playbills, notebooks (and pens) and an excessive amount of argyle up the stairs, but finally everything was thrown into a corner of Quinn's – their –apartment, with vows to clean everything up tomorrow.

As she cooked them both dinner, Quinn watched Rachel place the silver crown onto the table next to her side of the bed, then turn to smile at her. "You make me feel like a princess."

"Good, I'm glad. You are."

"I don't have a fancy name for you…"

She was so used to calling Rachel princess that it had never occurred to Quinn that Rachel never called her anything but, well, her name. She could admit to herself that she used to dream about Rachel calling her Mistress or Ma'am or even My Lady, like Elle called Jamie, but Quinn worried that it would be too much, too soon. She was still desperately worried about scaring Rachel away.

"I don't need a fancy name, Rach," Quinn said, smiling her reassurance. "As long as you call me yours, I'm happy."

"Maybe we can come up with some things you'd like to be called and write them down. For later, you know."

"For later," Quinn echoed, trying not to let herself get carried away with excitement.

Baby steps. Turtle steps. Something like that.

They sat close together on the couch and ate dinner, laughing at Van as he tried to uncover the contents of the various suitcases now invading his space. Quinn insisted on not letting Rachel lift a finger to help with the dishes, only letting the girl perch on one of the stools at the counter and watch her. She knew that it had been a hard couple of days for Rachel, even harder than perhaps any of her other days, and so Quinn was determined to take care of her.

Which was why, as she started to pull out the books she would need to study for her classes tomorrow, she looked over at Rachel, and quietly asked, "Would you like to take a bath? Not a shower, but a bath. To relax."

Rachel seemed startled by her question. "I'm all right, really, Quinn."

"Okay," Quinn said with a nod.

"But a bath would be nice…"

She smiled and wordlessly got up, stopping Rachel on the way to the bathroom. "I'll get it ready," she said, and kissed her lips gently.

She liked this, Quinn decided, as she took towels and washcloths out of the cabinet and rested them to the side for Rachel to use. It made her feel good, it made her feel protective. Even if it was something as simple as turning on the tap and testing the water before plugging the tub and watching it begin to fill. Almost as an afterthought she plucked up her favorite body wash and squirted some into the water, grinning when the suds began to take over.

Going back out in the living room, Quinn smiled, seeing that Rachel had selected some pajamas to wear and was now waiting awkwardly.

"In you go," Quinn said, guiding her to the bathroom with a light pat. "Take all the time you need, I'll just be out here studying."

Rachel hugged her impulsively, and Quinn held her close, kissing the top of her head. "Thank you," Rachel mumbled, then pulled away and disappeared into the bathroom with what sounded to Quinn like a delighted sigh.

Nearly two hours later, Quinn was beginning to wonder if Rachel had fallen asleep or wasted away to a prune when the bathroom door came open and Rachel reappeared, a sparkle in her eyes that made Quinn's breath catch in her throat.

"That was amazing," she declared, moving to drop her dirty clothes into the hamper, and Quinn couldn't help but laugh. "I've often said that a nice bath can be the cure to almost anything, and I do believe that once again I'm right."

"You probably are," Quinn replied, her eyes drifting back down to her book. She frowned and made a note in the margin, half-cognizant of Rachel watching her.

"You take good care of me," Rachel suddenly said, and Quinn looked up, laying her pen down and nodding.

"I try," she said, sensing by Rachel's expression that something was on her mind.

"I mean, you treated me to breakfast in bed, which, I might add, has completely spoiled me for any breakfast in the future."

"So you've told me, repeatedly."

"And then you… made sure I was all right after… you know."

"I know."

"Then dinner, and now the bath."

"Rach, I'm not sure I understand—"

Rachel was standing at the counter, looking adorable in pink pajamas and with her hair in braided pigtails. She worried the hem of her pajama shirt with her fingers as she finally asked what apparently had been on her mind.

"You're just taking such good care of me, but… who takes care of you?"

Ah, so that's what it was. Who did take care of Quinn? She wondered to herself. Her parents and her grandmother, sure, when she was back home in Lima. But in New York… well, there was Jamie and Elle, and Sam. They were good to her, they were her friends, but Quinn couldn't say with any certainty that they took care of her.

She was the one who gave herself the medicine when she was sick, took herself to the doctor if she needed it. She bought her own groceries, drew her own baths, and made her own dinners…

She shrugged at Rachel. "I take pretty good care of myself, princess," she joked, and turned back to her studies.

She fully expected Rachel to sit with her, to maybe watch television or just to sit in quiet comfort as she studied, which is why Quinn felt a little unnerved when ten whole minutes went by and Rachel made no move to leave the counter, but just stood there, watching her. Quinn got the sense that something was still going on in the young woman's mind, but she had no idea what. She also didn't know if she was meant to ask; Quinn figured that Rachel would let her know in her own time.

She got her answer when Rachel crossed the floor to her and stood in front of her for a moment. Quinn glanced up, eyebrows furrowing when she saw the intense look of purpose on Rachel's face.

Her heart stopped, the world stood still as slowly, effortlessly…

Rachel knelt in front of Quinn.

And oh, she was beautiful. She was tiny and uncertain, all dark wet hair and flushed face blushing with submission, hands that didn't know what to do with themselves until finally, awkwardly, they settled on Quinn's knees and held on, trembling. Her back was straight, her head was down with eyes raised until they met Quinn's through lashes and Quinn couldn't help but wonder _where had she learned to be so perfect?_

There was no collar, no black leather or whips and chains, no handcuffs or things that Quinn had learned in textbooks. No flowery words of dedication, no signed set of rules and limits that would have to come later. There wasn't even a song.

There was just Rachel Berry, shaking slightly in pink pajamas, with a ridiculous cat purring and rubbing against her bare feet as, Quinn realized, she offered herself to the woman who called her "princess."

It was the most unromantic, most beautiful picture Quinn could never have painted.

She covered Rachel's hands with her own.

"Rach?" she queried softly.

This was Rachel's decision. Not Quinn's order.

"_I'll_ take care of you."

Rachel's promise. Not Quinn's demand.

She cupped Rachel's cheek with her hand.

Rachel smiled.

Quinn did too.


	26. The Pie and the Girl

Rachel went back to work.

Quinn was resistant to it at first; though working at the diner was good, and honest, and truthfully brought in enough money for Rachel to help with the groceries and her own needs, Quinn also knew Rachel didn't belong in a diner. She had hoped that once Rachel was finally with her that the younger girl would want to start going to auditions or at least looking for them.

But baby steps, Quinn told herself, as she compromised with Rachel by insisting she walk her home that first night back at the diner.

The bell over the door tinkled as Quinn walked in at half past eleven, and Rachel looked up from cleaning one of the tables with a smile. She came to Quinn immediately, folding herself into her and smelling of burgers and sweat and that faint hint of spicy perfume that was Rachel's favorite. Quinn tucked her face into Rachel's neck and breathed her in.

"Missed you."

"It was only 8 hours, princess."

"I said, I missed you."

Quinn chuckled into Rachel's skin and pressed a light kiss to her neck, just above her shoulder, smirking slightly as Rachel shivered.

"I missed you too."

This was love, Quinn thought, as she pulled away and brushed an errant strand of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail away from Rachel's face. This was real love, not the fairytale she'd dreamed of as a child, but flesh and blood, gritty with the scent of grease and salt. Brown eyes that were twinkling adoringly up at her.

A throat, clearing itself just behind. Quinn turned.

"Hey, Rach, why don't you go count down the till?" Burt asked from his position leaning over the lunch counter, his eyes on Quinn.

Rachel looked at her, and Quinn smiled even though now she was nervous. "Go on," she said with a kiss to Rachel's forehead. "I'll wait for you."

Rachel cast a dubious look at Burt and shrugged, moving towards the back of the diner, her hand lingering in Quinn's until the last possible second.

"So," Burt said, once Rachel had disappeared past the swinging doors.

"So…" Quinn took a deep breath and perched herself on one of the stools in front of him.

"You and Rachel, you're doing this thing."

"Yeah," Quinn agreed, unable to keep a small smile off her face. "We're doing this thing."

"Hmm. You remember that first night you came into the diner?"

Now the smile faded, and Quinn glanced down at the counter, tracing its fake marble strands with her finger. "I remember."

"I don't think you realize just how much you startled her. She lives her life for what, four, five years, and then you come waltzing in."

"I'm sorry," Quinn said miserably, feeling like a puppy being scolded for not making it outside in time.

"She comes in the next day, and you know what she says to me?"

Quinn shook her head, not wanting to know the answer, but Burt did anyway.

"She looks at me and she's cleaning off one of those tables and she says 'That girl… do you think she's pretty?'"

Quinn stared at Burt. Even with the stern expression on his face she could see the merest hint of a twinkle in his eyes, and the rapid thump of her heart in her throat began to slow.

"So what'd you say?"

Burt busied himself boxing up one of the pies that was still left on the display – lemon meringue – sliding it across the counter towards Quinn. "I said you were all right," he responded, and Quinn rolled her eyes, trying not to execute a perfect Rachel Berry huff of indignation.

"It's not my opinion that matters," Burt said with a knowing look. "And Rachel… she thinks you're the prettiest girl she's ever met."

Quinn blushed and grinned. "Yeah?"

"It's what she said." Burt finished boxing up the rest of the pies and leaned against the counter again, looking intently at Quinn.

"That night I saw her smile, a real smile, for the first time since she started working here. You know, she doesn't have a dad in her life."

Quinn nodded. "I know, sir."

"But if you do anything, anything at all, to make that little girl cry? I'll be more than happy to fulfill that role. Got it?"

She had to fight the urge to salute, and so Quinn merely nodded. "I'll do my best."

Burt studied her for a minute, then shrugged. "And, you know, if she hurts you I'll kick her can too."

Quinn laughed, causing Rachel to give her a strange look as she came back out into the diner.

"We're a dollar short," she said, taking her place next to Quinn, who slid her arm around Rachel's waist.

"Mm, guess that'll come out of next week's paycheck then."

"Yes, yours, not mine," Rachel said, and Burt laughed.

"Get out of here, take the girl and the pie with you."

They fell into a routine after that first night; not necessarily an easy one, but after a few false stops and starts and a tiny disagreement or two caused by Quinn being grumpy over exams – something she apologized profusely for – everything gradually settled down. Quinn didn't like the idea of Rachel working late, so Rachel rearranged her schedule with Burt so that she only had to work late two nights a week. Even then Rachel had to put her foot down and tell Quinn that she'd survived this long walking home alone, she didn't need Quinn to come pick her up every time. And then Quinn had to laugh, because Rachel had insisted on picking _her_ up during the two nights a week she had late classes. But eventually it was decided that on Rachel's late nights, Quinn would make dinner. On Quinn's late nights, Rachel would make dinner, and have Quinn's bath or things for her shower ready for her when she came home.

There was a small list on the coffee table now, with a few items punctuated by a gold star. Quinn had been reluctant to discuss things, preferring to go slow as Rachel had asked, but Rachel had been the one to bring the list up. It was generic more than anything, with reminders like respect and honesty (No Lying bullet-pointed with a gold star at Quinn's insistence) and a few consequences. That had brought a lump to Quinn's throat, because Rachel had shakily written out and gold-starred one simple request.

No slapping.

She was fine with physical punishment, she reassured Quinn, an awkward conversation that had left both of them blushing, but there was to be no facial contact whatsoever. And Quinn was more than happy to comply.

It was a simple list, barely anything really, but things gradually moved into a sort of casual formality that seemed to be working for both of them. There was just one thing that Quinn had yet to do with Rachel, a thought ever-present on her mind as one night she nervously tugged on her dress and waited for Rachel to come home.

At half past four the door opened and she breezed in, blowing hair out of her face with a noisy puff and "Quinn, I'm home!" dying on her lips as she took in Quinn standing in the center of the living room floor. Rachel's eyes scanned over Quinn, over the form-fitting, strapless black bodice that ended in a flowing, blue chiffon knee-length skirt, and she bit her lip.

"You're a little overdressed for dinner at home," she said.

"Dinner at home, yes," Quinn said, crossing the floor and kissing Rachel gently. "Which is why we're not having dinner at home."

"We're not?"

"No," Quinn shook her head, then grinned sheepishly. "Rachel Berry, will you go on a date with me?"

"Now?" Rachel asked in confusion, even as a slow smile spread across her own face.

"Yes, now," Quinn laughed. "Go get dressed or we'll be late!"

"I haven't even said yes," but Rachel was already moving towards the chest of drawers. "And where are we going?"

"Dinner," Quinn said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And… something else."

Rachel straightened up from pulling out clothes, which were now a mountain on top of the bed, and regarded Quinn suspiciously. "Something else where?"

"Somewhere," Quinn simply answered, thinking about the tickets that were tucked into the black clutch resting on the coffee table. This could all go badly, so very badly. But if it didn't… it would be wonderful.

Twenty minutes later she was the luckiest woman in the world as she walked down the street, hand in hand with Rachel, who had shed her diner's uniform for a knee-length dress of her own, in blue to match Quinn's, with flowers.

"You look beautiful," Quinn said, using her other hand to run her fingers through Rachel's long hair.

Rachel blushed. "So do you. How long have you had this planned?"

"Not long," Quinn admitted as they approached the restaurant. "A day or two really, kind of a spontaneous thing." She reached for the door handle.

But Rachel beat her to it, opening the door and ducking her head, waiting for Quinn to pass.

"I like spontaneity."

Quinn looked at Rachel for a moment, then brushed past her into the restaurant. "Good to know," she said with a wink, waiting for her girl to rejoin her.

The waiter directed them to a table at the far end of the restaurant, and Quinn could only stop and stare again as Rachel rushed to pull out her chair for her, with the same ducked head.

"You're very chivalrous," Quinn remarked once they were sat close together, holding hands under the table.

Rachel flushed crimson in the dim light of the restaurant. "I'm not sure that's what it is."

"Maybe not, but I like it, princess," Quinn said.

She liked it a lot.

Rachel's smile could have lit up the room.

"Good to know."

Anyone passing by the two women would have taken them for a couple that had been together years, rather than two young girls on their first date. They talked and laughed quietly, shared a kiss to seal a toast "to us" that Quinn gallantly made. Rachel's eyes were wide and excited, taking in everything from the fancy cloth that adorned the table to the age of the wine that Quinn ordered from a list that seemed to go on forever. Quinn, for her part, simply reveled in the conversation; for so long the only time she had heard Rachel's voice had been in her head. And even though their psychic bond had been a natural part of their life, at least for a while, now Quinn was realizing she couldn't get enough of hearing Rachel's voice, from the quiet softness of pain to the incredible infectiousness of her laugh. There was nothing that Rachel Berry could ever say that Quinn Fabray wouldn't want to hear.

Except goodbye.

And so she couldn't be blamed for the people at the next table who glanced over at the two of them, with soft smiles of their own brought on by the togetherness of forty years, a man with white hair and the woman of his dreams, staring at a blonde girl and her tiny brunette and remembering the newness of young love, of two people who had their own worlds, their own lives, but who couldn't take their eyes off the other.

"Something's missing," Rachel commented as she and Quinn finished up their shared dessert of chocolate cake, and Quinn's heart dropped.

"The food wasn't good?" she asked, paying the bill and escorting Rachel out.

Rachel pursed her lips at Quinn and shook her head. "The food was amazing," she reassured her with a kiss. "But there wasn't a dance floor."

Quinn raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Are you saying you wanted to dance with me?"

"Maybe," Rachel teased. "Would you have said no?"

Quinn glanced around, then looked at Rachel, extending her hand.

"Madam?"

Rachel laughed merrily, taking Quinn's hand and allowing herself to be pulled into an impromptu waltz.

"Isn't that my line?"

"I don't know, you tell me."

Rachel's eyes softened, but she said nothing as she nestled her head into Quinn's shoulder, the waltz moving into a slow dance in the middle of a crowded New York City sidewalk.

Fifteen minutes later, Rachel's hand in Quinn's tightened as the theater came into view.

Quinn walked her the short distance up to the poster at the theater, moving Rachel so that she was standing in front of Quinn, her arms around Rachel's waist and her chin on her shoulder.

"Funny Girl," Rachel stated, her voice thick with emotion.

"Funny Girl," Quinn agreed gently.

"I-I don't—"

"Then you don't have to," Quinn said. She turned Rachel in her arms and brushed her cheek with a kiss. "I saw a lot of shows when I moved to New York."

Rachel nodded, her eyes never leaving Quinn's face. "You told me."

"And I'd love to see this with the woman I love. But if it's going to hurt you, then we turn right around and go home. We'll curl up on the couch and watch Wheel of Submission."

"You always solve that in two clues!"

"It's not my fault I'm brilliant, princess."

"No, I guess not," Rachel said, the dimple appearing in her cheek, and Quinn impulsively kissed it again.

"Let's go in."

"Are you sure?" Quinn asked, her hands on Rachel's shoulders now, thumbs stroking her neck lightly. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"You're here," Rachel said. "I'll… I'll be okay."

Quinn nodded, still not terribly sure, but with her hand held securely in Rachel's she led her into the theatre. Immediately they were assaulted by the sights and smells of Broadway and Quinn couldn't help but smile, seeing the lights sparkle in Rachel's eyes, the way her mouth had opened to a silent, mesmerized "o" as they walked around, seeing all the costumes and props that were on display inside glass cases, the pictures of former stars of the show and famous guests lining the walls.

"Everything all right?" Quinn asked Rachel as they navigated the throng of theatre-goers towards one of the souvenir stands.

"It's just beautiful!" Rachel sighed wistfully, and Quinn chuckled, even as she clutched Rachel closer to her.

"What do you think of this?" she asked moments later, turning to Rachel and holding up a keychain.

Rachel laughed. "I think it's just lovely. And maybe it would keep you from losing your keys so much."

"Fantastic, I'll take it," Quinn declared to the lady behind the counter, then glanced at Rachel again.

"Anything you want, darling?"

"Oh, no," Rachel said, but it didn't go unnoticed by Quinn that her fingertips were lingering over a necklace with the show's logo. "That's all right, I don't need anything."

Quinn went to hand the money to the seller, but added another bill at the last second. "The necklace for my princess," she said, and tapped Rachel's nose with her finger when the girl just stared at her.

"She's not a funny girl is she?" the seller teased, and Quinn winked at her.

"Not yet."

She waited until they were away from the counter before taking both Rachel's hands in hers and regarding her seriously. "If you want something," Quinn said, "I expect you to tell me, is that clear, Rachel?"

Rachel nodded, looking down at the floor and scuffing the carpet with one high heeled foot. "I'm sorry, I just don't want to seem greedy."

Quinn shook her head. "You're not in trouble, Rach, you don't need to apologize. I'm just saying, it's okay to want me to buy a souvenir."

Rachel thought a moment, then asked, "Can I have a poster?"

"You have one already! Autographed! By two separate casts!"

"It was worth a try."

She had a bit of the brat in her, Quinn thought. The idea of it made her mouth go dry, and she swallowed hard.

"Quinn?"

"Hmm?" She turned back to Rachel, still a little distracted by thoughts that were whirling around in her head.

"Would you like me to get you a drink?" Rachel tipped her head towards the bar.

It was on the tip of her tongue for Quinn to say no, but something about Rachel's hopeful look gave her pause.

Rachel wanted to get her a drink. She had noticed that Quinn seemed thirsty, even if she didn't know the real reason, and she had offered.

She'd offered to serve her.

"Get me a simple drink," Quinn instructed. "Not too heavy and not too fruity." She knew she could've just given Rachel the name of the drink she preferred, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't testing Rachel a little bit, to see what she came up with.

The same focused look that had come onto Rachel's face the first night she'd knelt for Quinn crossed over her face again, and she nodded. "Yes, Quinn," she answered in a clear voice, and Quinn shivered, watching as Rachel walked to the bar.

Minutes later she returned, a small, cold glass of amber liquid, topped by a cherry, in her hands. Rachel held it out to Quinn. "I hope you approve," she said, and this time there was uncertainty in her tone.

Quinn said nothing, preferring to take the drink and sip at it. She smiled, and the look of Rachel's relief was palpable. Quinn pulled her close with one arm. "This is perfect," she said.

She hesitated, then leaned into Rachel's ear. "Good girl," she whispered.

Rachel's smile stayed with her as she and Quinn were seated, but it faded as she looked out to the stage, and Quinn entwined their fingers together again, a stab of worry coursing through her.

"Rach?"

"I did think you were bringing me to a show," Rachel confessed, "But I thought it would be Wicked."

"It's probably a bit too early for that," Quinn said tenderly. "I was afraid that would really upset you."

Rachel was quiet, using her other hand to play with Quinn's fingers. "When do you think Elphaba and Glinda bonded?"

Quinn drew back a little in shock, then thought about it. "During For Good," she decided finally.

"Right before they part."

Quinn nodded, not knowing what else to say, but knowing that there were thoughts working themselves out in Rachel's head that maybe she wasn't meant to be a part of anyway.

"And yet the Fiyero and Elphaba fans still think he was her true love," Rachel sighed, a little overdramatically, and Quinn had to laugh.

"Well, there's no explaining that," she said. "I guess they just can't see what's right in front of them."

Rachel looked at her. "I'm glad we do."

Quinn smiled and kissed her nose. "Me too, princess."

Rachel would later describe the show as a "passable production," and Quinn would later just roll her eyes because she just thought it was amazing. Though it would be far more amazing once Rachel took on the title role, she told herself.

And it seemed that perhaps Rachel had been thinking the same thing, because Quinn noticed tears streaking down her face during Don't Rain on My Parade. After, when everyone had risen for thunderous applause and the actors had made their bows, Rachel remained seated while the others filed out, and Quinn shifted toward her.

"Princess?"

"That could be me right now," Rachel said with regret.

"It could still be you someday."

Rachel swiped her hand over her eyes and smiled tearfully at Quinn. "I've missed so much."

"I know." Quinn took Rachel's hands and kissed both of them in turn. "But if you want to, Rachel, that stage can still be yours. Any stage can be."

"You really believe that?"

"I really believe that," Quinn assured her.

For a moment she was once again angry at Shelby, for taking so much away from Rachel. Quinn's own parents would probably say that she had grown up, because she wasn't mad at Shelby for herself any longer. Her own pain, her own grief at losing Rachel somehow didn't matter in the face of Rachel having missed so much. A father, friends, her bond, singing, Broadway. A mother who was supportive and loved her no matter what. No child should ever lose out on that, Quinn thought to herself, especially at a parent's own hand. But she didn't voice these thoughts, knowing instead that it would just cause Rachel even more pain, knowing just how much Rachel still loved Shelby no matter what.

Rachel was quiet for the longest moment, sitting and staring at the stage, until she glanced at Quinn with new light in her eyes.

"Let's go to stage door."

Quinn stood and watched as Rachel was in her element, laughing and talking excitedly with the other theatre-goers about the show. Quinn was content just to stand back and listen as Rachel critiqued this actor's performance or that actress's interpretation of a song; she marveled at just how much Rachel seemed to be a "Broadway baby," how comfortable she was talking about songs and backdrops and exits, how natural it all seemed to her. Some things never left, Quinn thought to herself with a proud smile.

The door opened then and the actors began to stream out; Quinn would swear that she heard Rachel squeal before the girl rushed over to her. "Will you hold my purse while I get autographs?" she said excitedly, and Quinn laughed.

"Yes, princess, I'll hold it."

"Thank you, Miss," Rachel said breathlessly; her eyes widened for a split second before she turned and took her place in line again.

_Miss._

Had she actually heard that right?

Quinn tried not to get too excited; maybe she hadn't heard right. There were, after all, a lot of people around, girls caught up in the throes of excitement, meeting their favorite Broadway stars and getting them to sign their books and their playbills and asking them to pose for pictures.

So maybe she'd just… heard her name. That was it, Quinn decided. Rachel had just said her name.

But _Quinn_ didn't sound anything like _Miss_.

As they walked home, Quinn listened in silence as Rachel rattled on happily about the various signatures, only once grumpily complaining that she could barely decipher the one from the actor who had portrayed Nick. The corner of Quinn's mouth quirked up into a smile at that, but her mind was elsewhere as she listened.

Finally, she stopped, once again in the middle of the sidewalk. That was probably dangerous now that night had fallen, but Quinn needed to know for sure.

"Rachel?"

Rachel looked at her. "Yes… Miss?" she asked carefully, her eyes worried.

Not her name. Not Quinn, but Miss.

Quinn took a step towards her, her hand reaching out to cup Rachel's waist.

"Princess, are you sure? Because if it's too early… I don't want you to feel as if you have to because you don't."

"I don't," Rachel answered honestly. "But it just feels right. It feels like that's what I'm meant to call you."

"Oh."

"You don't like it," Rachel said, and Quinn's heart clenched when the girl hung her head.

"No, I don't like it," Quinn said, tipping Rachel's chin up and kissing her gently. "I love it."

Rachel smiled sheepishly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They were quiet for the rest of the walk home, up until they reached the sidewalk that was in front of Quinn's apartment.

"Miss?"

Quinn smiled, loving the way it sounded coming from Rachel's lips, and stopped, turning to look at her. "Yes, Rachel?"

"Thank you for our date." Rachel tipped herself up on her toes and kissed Quinn lovingly. "I would like it very much if you were so inclined to take me on another one."

"Oh you would, would you, princess?" Quinn said, pulling Rachel into her arms for another slow dance in the street light.

"Yes, Miss," Rachel hummed, curling into her.

"Good to know," Quinn whispered, closing her eyes and swaying to the sounds of the city and Rachel's gentle breathing. "Good to know."


	27. Over the Moon

"A little to the left… oh… okay now up… oh god yes, right there, right there, yes!"

Quinn raised an eyebrow and shook her head. "Shouldn't you be the one scratching my back?"

Still, she smiled when Rachel looked over her shoulder at her with an impish grin. "But your nails are just perfect," Rachel practically purred. "And you're so good to me."

"And you," Quinn said, lightly poking Rachel's back, "Are silly." She resumed her attentions, the scratching giving way to gentle backrubs, and Rachel sighed, pressing herself into Quinn's hands.

It was just after 4 p.m. on a lazy Friday afternoon, and Rachel had just gotten home from work. Spaghetti was heating on the stove, Van was washing himself on the living room rug, and Quinn couldn't seem to stop smiling. So much had fallen into place in the last few days that she actually wondered if she needed to be worried.

Things were probably different for them, than it was for most other couples in their dynamic, Quinn knew. But that was okay, because Rachel had said she needed to go slow, and after five years, Quinn figured she could wait a little longer for Rachel to be ready. The list of rules that were now taped to the inside of Quinn's closet were less a set of defined rules and more… "a delicate compromise," as Rachel termed it.

Their lives were busy, to start with. Some days it seemed as if Quinn barely got enough time with Rachel, because if Quinn wasn't heading off to class then Rachel was donning her waitress's uniform and going off to work, though Burt had been trying to give her less hours. Rachel said it was because Burt knew Rachel and Quinn wanted to make up for all the moments they'd missed over the years, but Quinn wondered if it was Burt subtly trying to let his favorite employee know that maybe it was time for her to travel the Great White Way.

When Quinn was sixteen years old, and fantasizing what life would be like once she'd found Rachel again, she never imagined that life wouldn't be silk ropes and collars, Rachel on her knees and loving words falling from her lips each time they spoke. She never once thought that at the age of 19 she'd be faced with trying to navigate a world in which she barely even knew the person she was bonded to, where that same girl was still apprehensive about showing her affection in some ways, and where the spectre of an unapproving mother loomed ever present over both of them.

Rachel was trying, slowly but surely, to mend her relationship with Shelby. Quinn couldn't say she was happy about the phone calls or the visits, but she'd never have taken Rachel away from her mother. She'd been taken away too much already, and Quinn was finding it too hard to forgive Shelby for that. But she knew it wasn't her job to forgive Shelby; she just hated the haunted look on Rachel's face each time she came back from a visit or hung up from a phone call. It made Quinn worry that yet another ribbon was being torn in two, but this time, Rachel herself was the ribbon.

So life was less of a bedroom fantasy and more two girls trying to understand each other and the new dynamic they found themselves in, unlike anything either of them had been taught. Quinn had been taught her life would be about control and rules; Rachel had been taught her life would be about heartache and loss. Both of them were powerless to do anything else now but hold hands and try to walk the road together.

As hard as it could be though, Quinn loved it, and knew she wouldn't trade it for anything. Especially in the early mornings, when Rachel would start to stir from her sleep. She'd stretch her legs out and let out a whine that reminded Quinn way too much of an adorable puppy; in fact she'd called Rachel that once or twice, laughing at the way Rachel's face would flood crimson. Quinn would lay with her arm draped over her eyes, shielding them from the sun that always poured through the window, and pretend to be asleep. And somehow it always struck her that Rachel was her most submissive in the mornings, because she'd curl around Quinn and tuck her head under her chin, one word quietly leaving her lips.

It wasn't a request, it wasn't Rachel trying to get Quinn's attention, she realized. Because Rachel wouldn't say anything else, not until Quinn had "woken" and they got out of bed to begin their day. Rather, for the fifteen or so minutes that the two of them lay there together, drawing strength and love with each slow, calm breath, Quinn understood that Rachel was telling herself, it's not a dream. Rachel, who had torn herself away from the one person she wanted the most, now needed to reassure herself every day that Quinn was real, that Quinn hadn't been a beautiful ghost in yet another heartbreaking dream, sweet and buried in Rachel's unconscious hopes, only to fade away with the first rays of sunlight. Rachel needed to feel her, to press her body close to Quinn's and feel the steady sureness of her heartbeat. Quinn would keep her eyes closed, feeling a small, uncertain hand skim its way over her arm from shoulder to wrist, until finally, warm fingers would tighten around hers. She'd smell the gentle scent that was Rachel's flowery shampoo, feel Rachel under her chin, and finally, finally, after a few long moments, Rachel would relax. Quinn was there, Quinn was real, and it wasn't a dream.

Quinn would pretend to be asleep, and try not to cry.

A breath, a sigh of relief. A whisper.

"Miss."

Rachel didn't call Quinn Miss every time; she was still trying to find her own way around the person that she was, the person that she had suppressed for so long, and there wasn't any possibility of Quinn trying to force Rachel to be someone that she wasn't ready for. They'd eased into a casual kind of bond, honorifics and deference in the early mornings, and then a sweet affection of text messages and phone calls during the day. And once the sun went down, Miss and her princess were slowly discovering the beauty of a girl on her knees, or a firm hand protectively circling a wrist as they watched television.

And the best part of sundown, always the best part, for Quinn, was the kisses. Oh, they shared numerous kisses during the day, gentle and sweet and teasing, but something was changing, for both of them, and it was never more apparent as it was when they were alone in the dark and quiet, holding each other in what was now _their_ bed.

Neither of them were ready, and both of them were glad when they'd realized, because the kisses were becoming too urgent, too fast, with hands moving where they hadn't before. And then Rachel would start to shake, or Quinn would pull back with shallow, rapid breaths. They'd smile and laugh, foreheads touching, and sometimes Quinn would sing. It was easier at night, when Rachel couldn't see her blush, and it helped to calm both of them in the heat of the moment.

Both knew what they wanted, but Rachel had said "slow," and if it was a turtle's pace she needed, that's what she would get. Even so, it was hard not to imagine if and when, especially now as Quinn ended her massage and wrapped her arms around Rachel's waist, pressing her lips to Rachel's neck.

"What do you want to do with our evening, puppy?"

The tips of Rachel's ears turned pink, even as she shivered from the touch of Quinn's mouth on her skin.

"Well, we don't have to go out," she said, "Since someone so lovingly cooked an amazing dinner for us both."

"You're such a flatterer," Quinn said, urging Rachel to turn around so that she could hold her. "But yes, we can stay in if you want."

Rachel nodded and was about to say something, when a knock at the door sounded. Quinn tilted her head, confused.

"Sam?" Rachel offered, and Quinn shook her head, reluctantly getting up from the couch.

"He's working tonight," she answered Rachel, "So I don't know why he'd be here." She crossed the apartment to the door and opened it.

"Maybe he took the night off, though, I bet I still have one of his video games."

"Actually, no," Jamie said, shuffling from one foot to the other as Quinn stared.

Elle smiled warmly at Quinn, then peered past her to wave at Rachel. "We've um, we've come to talk," she said, glancing at her mistress, then back at Quinn. "I'm sure you know why?"

Oh, she knew exactly why, Quinn thought to herself. She remembered full well the night that Jamie had jumped on Rachel; the anger that still rested just below the surface was tempered, though, by the confessions that had come later that night, and how she and Rachel had fallen asleep in each other's arms. Quinn took a step back from the door and looked over at Rachel.

Rachel's face was conflicted, as if she wanted to tell both Jamie and Elle to go away, but couldn't, because they were Quinn's friends. And Elle was Rachel's, now, somewhat, and Quinn could tell that Rachel was so desperate for friends, so desperate for anyone to give her some sort of attention that wasn't her mother's.

That was part of what scared Quinn, too, but Rachel was always hasty to reassure her that she wasn't just latching on to Quinn. She did, really and truly, love her.

Rachel hesitated, before she managed a small smile at Quinn, and nodded. Quinn returned the smile, then looked back at Jamie and Elle.

"You two come on in, just let me turn the stove off."

"Oh, shoot, you cooked dinner," Elle said, sounding disappointed. "My Lady and I were going to go out for Chinese and thought you and Rachel might like to join us."

"Rach?" Quinn queried. "I can put the spaghetti up and we can have it tomorrow."

"I don't know," Rachel said slowly, and Quinn was going to decline when Jamie spoke up.

"I'm sorry."

She wasn't speaking to anyone else but Rachel, and the regret in Jamie's voice was palpable. She went and sat down by Rachel, which made Quinn tense, but a quick glance to Elle told her that she had absolutely nothing to worry about, and both she and Quinn retreated a little ways off from the other two.

"When Quinn found you I kind of yelled at her, told her she needed to tone it down before you slapped a restraining order on her," Jamie continued with a rueful chuckle. "As it turns out, I probably should've listened to my own advice. Luckily I have someone who reminds me that being a Dominant doesn't mean dominating everyone."

Elle smiled, ducking her head and blushing as she helped Quinn package up the spaghetti and transfer it to the refrigerator.

"You were right though," Rachel said. "My mother… she's why."

"That only matters to you and Quinn," Jamie said gently, reaching out and ever so carefully taking Rachel's hand and squeezing it. "What matters to me and Elle is that you're the reason you're here now, Quinn's the reason you're here now. And as long as you two take care of each other then we don't want anything else. I don't want anything else. Except to be Quinn's friend. And yours."

Quinn and Elle were finished now, and Quinn leaned on the counter, not wanting to look as if she was eavesdropping. But it was a studio apartment, after all, and she couldn't help but smile, listening as one of her best friends tried to reassure the woman she loved. What Jamie said next though made all pretense of not listening fly out the window.

"And if I get out of line again you can be sure that brat over there with Quinn will let me know about it."

Rachel quirked an eyebrow as Quinn began to laugh, and her Miss was relieved to see those dimples appear as Rachel smiled. "Sesame chicken?" she asked Quinn, and she nodded, moving to hold out her hand and pull Rachel up from the couch.

"I think that sounds great, princess."

Thirty minutes later they were seated around a table and Rachel was glancing down at the menu, saying to Quinn, "I was born in 1994… the year of the dog."

"Hmm," Quinn hummed, taking a long drink of her water. "That seems accurate for you, puppy."

"Quinn!" Rachel gasped, and Elle giggled.

"So you two play, then?"

Quinn mentally facepalmed as Rachel regarded Elle, who was sharing a menu with Jamie as they held hands, almost cuddling in their section of the booth.

"Play?"

"Puppy play," Elle explained. She glanced at Rachel. "Since Quinn called you…" She trailed off, seeing Rachel's eyes widen. "Puppy… no?"

"I-I-" Rachel stuttered, her face so red that it now seemed purple, and Quinn found herself looking around the restaurant, trying to avoid meeting Jamie's eyes, since she looked as if she was about to burst out laughing any second.

"Okay, I am so sorry," Elle said quickly. "I just thought that… clearly I thought wrong so—"

"I mean I wouldn't necessarily be opposed to it."

Quinn choked on her water, causing Rachel to smack her back and her Miss spluttered before finally looking at her with shocked eyes.

Rachel wanted to…?

Rachel bit her lip and looked down at the table. "I mean if you wanted to, but perhaps this isn't the best place…"

"We'll talk about it later," Quinn hastened. Down, me, she told herself, because she'd in that short second already begun to think about it, and she didn't need Jamie to be smirking at her any more than she already was.

"Right, well," Elle cleared her throat. "Have you thought about what you might like to order, Miss?"

"I think I might get the sesame chicken after all," Quinn said, noticing that Rachel had stiffened next to her. Quinn wondered what was wrong, and began wracking her brain for what she or Elle might have said that upset Rachel.

But as it turned out, Rachel apparently felt bold enough to address that herself. Smiling sweetly, she said to Jamie, "And what about you? What will you be ordering, My Lady?"

It was as if ice slid through her veins, hearing those words, almost like they were a bad dream. And she wasn't the only one who felt that way; Quinn had never before seen Elle turn that particular shade of green, and even Jamie's mouth dropped open as she stared at Rachel. The two submissives squared off, with Rachel sitting back against the booth, her arms crossed over her chest. The sly grin on her face seemed almost to be daring Elle to say something to her, and Quinn asked herself when a simple double date to a Chinese restaurant had turned into an all-out war.

But then Elle laughed, and she smiled warmly at Rachel. "Your point is very well taken, Rachel Berry," she said, and she winked at Jamie. "Jamie is my lady, and Quinn is your miss. I won't forget it."

Quinn couldn't help but pout, even as Rachel nodded and said, "I won't forget it either." She smiled though, because Rachel leaned over and kissed her cheek.

"I love you, Miss."

And then she was beaming, pulling Rachel to her with one arm. "I love you too, my devious little princess."

Quinn spent the next couple of hours sitting back for the most part and just letting Rachel enjoy having a dinner out with friends. She was so glad that Jamie and Rachel seemed to be getting along now, and were even able to laugh and joke with each other. There were so many things that Rachel apparently hadn't ever been able to do, going out to dinner with friends being one of them. So even though Quinn talked and enjoyed her meal and kept playing with Rachel's hair, she was content mostly just to sit back and let her princess shine.

"I think things are going to be a lot better now," Jamie said to Quinn as they paid the bill.

Quinn glanced over at Rachel, who seemed to be busy studying a flyer on the wall, the writing too small for Quinn to see what it was, exactly.

"I hope so. We still have… things to learn."

"Well sure you do," Jamie said with a shrug, popping a mint into her mouth and handing one to Quinn. "You don't want sesame chicken breath to interfere with smoochin'."

"Smoochin'?" Quinn said, and shook her head, but took the mint nonetheless.

"Yes, smoochin'. And anyway, we are who we are, Quinn, but that doesn't mean everything comes naturally. No one told you when you were seven years old that you'd have to deal with any of this, and no one told you what it was going to be like when you found Rachel. You could read every book there is out there and still not know everything."

"You make it sound like you do, though," Quinn pointed out.

"Well yeah, _I_ know everything. I just said that _you_ won't."

Elle came up right as Quinn punched Jamie in the arm, and cooed over her lady appropriately while pretending to glare at the perpetrator. "She probably deserved it though," she whispered to Quinn, who laughed as the three of them met back up with Rachel.

"Ready to go?" Quinn asked, and Rachel nodded, though there was a faraway look in her eyes that caused a lump in Quinn's throat.

"Ready, Miss."

The look didn't leave Rachel's eyes even when they had made it back to their apartment, and she was sitting on the couch with Van on her lap. Quinn was quiet, hoping that Rachel would tell her on her own what was bothering her, but after about an hour, she couldn't stand the silence.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked, then shook her head at how ridiculous it sounded.

Rachel smiled at her. "It's that obvious, then?"

"Have I done something?" Quinn asked. She sat on the couch and shooed Van away, taking both Rachel's hands in hers. "Did I say or do something at dinner that—"

She was quieted by Rachel's finger on her lips and Quinn smiled, kissing it and waiting. Rachel pulled her hand away and looked at her for a moment.

"Do you think I would make a good Maureen?"

Quinn drew back a little. "Maureen?" Who was Maureen?

Rachel paused, her eyebrows lifted as if to say "Well?" When it was obvious Quinn wasn't going to get it, she let out a very melodramatic sigh, and then quietly sang, "Only thing to do is jump over the moon…"

"Maureen!" Quinn said stupidly, actually smacking her forehead with her hand. "Rent! Wait… wait… really?" She was unable to keep the excitement out of her voice, and Rachel blushed.

"There was a flyer on the window," she said hesitantly, and Quinn nodded.

"I saw it, was it an audition?"

"It's Off-Broadway," Rachel explained. "In fact it's so Off-Broadway it might be over a bowling alley in Jersey for all I know but it's… I don't know, it's—"

"It's a start," Quinn said, her hand now on Rachel's cheek, a thumb running over her lips. "It's a start for my princess. Oh, Rachel…"

A part of her was worried that it was too soon for Rachel to even think about auditioning for something, but if what Rachel said was true, that it was some Off-Broadway revival that was likely made up by a bunch of unknowns and probably would only be seen by relatives – well, not that she knew that was true but it was a _start_, it was Rachel taking one step in what Quinn hoped was _her_ right direction. She just hoped Rachel was doing it for _herself_, which is what had Quinn saying, "But if you don't want to, you don't have to, Rachel. Don't do anything because of me."

"Oh, I am doing it because of you," Rachel said, smiling a little, "Because you make me want to. You make me feel like I _can_. But I'm not promising anything."

"I'm not expecting anything," Quinn said, impulsively pulling Rachel onto her lap. She was afraid that Rachel might pull away, but instead the younger girl melted into her, her head on Quinn's shoulder. "I mean, except for you to be amazing. But that comes naturally."

She could feel Rachel smile against her skin. "Does it, Miss?"

"I think so," Quinn said, running her fingers through Rachel's hair and lightly kissing her ear. "I know that maybe… sometimes you haven't felt amazing, but trust me, Rach, you are."

It made Quinn's heart soar, thinking about Rachel finally, _finally_ being on stage. She worried, too, about the long hours and would the other cast be nice to her. Would the director say something about her nose – she'd kill him! – would the producers make sure to showcase Rachel's voice the way it needed to be? And then Quinn laughed to herself, because Rachel hadn't even gone on the audition. Rachel on Broadway was still, right now, a pipe dream, but to Quinn that didn't matter. It wasn't a question of if, it was only a question of when.

Which is why she wholeheartedly approved of Rachel calling and telling her mother. Quinn knew she was probably glad Rachel was doing it out of a perverse sense of pride; she liked the idea of Rachel finally showing Shelby that she was taking charge of her own life, and that she would be just fine doing it. Quinn had for so long made her own decisions, and her parents had always supported her, whether she wanted to be a history teacher or an artist. She simply still couldn't fathom a parent actively trying to keep their child from following their dreams.

So she sat with a little smile on her face, listening as Rachel carefully but excitedly told her mother all about the audition, where it was to be held and when, and possible selections that she might sing. Quinn thought that it didn't really matter what she sang, that she could sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and get any role she wanted – but that was why Quinn was studying history and wasn't a producer.

The sound of her own phone ringing broke Quinn out of her happy reverie, and she furrowed her brow, not recognizing the number that popped up on the screen. "Hello?" she said, answering.

"Is this Quinn Fabray?" The unfamiliar voice asked.

A woman, sounding clipped and professional. Impersonal. Almost like Shelby, Quinn thought, but she wouldn't dare ever tell that to Rachel. She figured it wouldn't go over very well.

"Yes, who's this?"

"This is Nurse Elizabeth Horne at New York Downtown. Are you able to come to the hospital?"

Quinn stood up, a wave of panic rushing over her. Elle and Jamie had walked home… Two women on a dark New York night, walking the streets alone. Oh God. Quinn didn't think she could forgive herself if… if…

Rachel, sensing that something was wrong, hung up the phone with her mother and came over to Quinn, grasping her hand and squeezing it tightly.

"Yes, yes of course I can, what's going on?"

"We have you listed as the emergency contact for a Mr. Evans, Sam Evans."

Quinn closed her eyes and wavered on her feet; Rachel steadied her with an arm around her waist.

"I'll be right there."


End file.
